


The Blue Carbuncle

by ArabellaStrange



Series: Ode to Broken Things [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Case Fic, Developing Relationship, M/M, canon references
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-06
Updated: 2013-10-18
Packaged: 2017-12-25 19:20:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 19,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/956731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArabellaStrange/pseuds/ArabellaStrange
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'In John’s defence, it would have taken no less than a wrongly accused man <i>and</i> a highly intelligent parrot to distract Sherlock from taking John to bed. Unfortunately for Sherlock’s primary plan, that was exactly what the day had in store for them.'</p><p>(Part Two of the 'Ode to Broken Things' series; adapted from the original Conan Doyle story of the same name.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Continued from [_The Man with the Twisted Lip_](http://archiveofourown.org/works/920607/chapters/1787753), which I suggest you read first, though I suppose it's not prohibitively confusing if you don't. Long chapters because, well, that's how it worked out.

  
_The Blue Carbuncle_  
Arabella Strange

_‘And that clock_  
_whose sound_  
_was_  
_the voice of our lives,_  
_the secret_  
_thread_  
_of our weeks,_  
_that one after another_  
_bound up so many hours_  
_to honey, to silence,_  
_to so many births and jobs,_  
_that clock also_  
_fell vibrating,_  
_among the broken glass_  
_its delicate blue guts,_  
_its long heart_  
_unwound.’_  
\--Pablo Neruda, ['Ode to Broken Things'](http://arabella-strange.tumblr.com/post/58264988829/things-are-being-broken-in-the-house-as-if)

 

Chapter 1.

 

John very much doubted – in fact, was prepared to lay down several thousand pounds and possibly an insignificant toe to prevent – the previous night’s turn of events ever appearing on his blog. From the looks of things this morning, though, it would a long while before he and Sherlock got around to addressing it themselves.

Which John was fine with. Mostly. He hadn’t been _hoping_ Sherlock would wake him in the night to demand to know what all this sudden (really rather astoundingly good) sex ‘meant’, nor had he had really been _expecting_ Sherlock to crowd him under the duvet and suggest they forget about whatever Sergeant Peterson had phoned for and spend the day in bed emphatically _not_ talking about it. He appreciated the sleep and, more importantly, the space to let himself adjust to… whatever new version of them (and Sherlock, and himself) had come into being.

Nevertheless he reserved the right to be slightly ill-tempered when Sherlock, standing next to the bed, had nudged him awake just before 8 o’clock saying something that had sounded unfortunately like, ‘… expecting us in the next hour.’

John stared blearily up at him. ‘You’re dressed.’

‘Bradstreet and Peterson are expecting us,’ Sherlock repeated evenly. With that, he swept out of the room, leaving John blinking across the empty whorl of his bed after him.

So John hopped into the shower, trying as he scrubbed not to think of every inch of skin as a place Sherlock had or had not touched, marked by the invisible imprint of the previous night. Fifteen minutes later he reported downstairs for duty.

‘Morning.’

‘Ah,’ Sherlock clipped, looking up from his phone, ‘good. Burglary’s already been picked up by the online press, and one of the less worthless constables informs me that the Countess has already phoned to _request_ ’ (John understood what such ‘requests’ from well-connected people amounted to) ‘a result as soon as possible, so we have no time to lose.’ He was on his feet, tugging on his coat and circling the kitchen table as he deposited his mug (apparently coffee, considering the smell in the air) in the sink. ‘Horner’s at the station being questioned by Bradstreet, as if that were any use at all, and then I expect we’ll need to see the hotel ourselves, even if the police had trampled all over the scene as usual. Possibly a seven if the security at the hotel is remotely correlative to their per-night rates. Here,’ he added, thrusting a newspaper into John’s hands before grabbing his keys from the high-table and striding out.

Out of bed for under half an hour and John already felt six steps behind. Not the most promising start to his day.

In the cab, John dutifully skimmed the headlines: famous gentleman politician’s glamorous wife robbed of her almost-equally famous, insanely valuable jewel. Safe apparently unbroken, and yet apparently not so safe.

He got to the fold and risked a glance at Sherlock. His grey-blue-green eyes were scanning the city slide by with an expression of faint distaste, and his fingers were thumping a vigorous beat onto the leather cushion between them. Was he allowed to rest his hand there too? Sentimental, definitely, but he _was_ sentimental, and the idea of pressing his thumbnail along Sherlock’s palm in slow, delicious furrows while his knee fell sideways to brush Sherlock’s knee and Sherlock’s breathing gave him away while John licked his lips, was –

Sherlock’s hand dashed into his pocket, took out his phone, and began typing.

Trying not to be put out, John returned to the newspaper, now slightly crinkled from where his own hands had been gripping it a little too tightly. He read, and then re-read the next sentence until he could be sure he wasn’t about to jump Sherlock in the back of a cab at just before 9 a.m.

At Bow Street, Sherlock gave his best Usain Bolt impersonation and, as ever, left John to pick up the fare.

A few minutes later, Sergeant Peterson, the not-quite-friendly sandy-haired woman with bizarrely jarring mannerisms, came into view. ‘We’ll have to get you a desk if you keep this up,’ she joked, grinning, as John bid her hello. She looked at – he would nearly call it ogled – Sherlock. John felt suddenly aware of Sherlock’s choice of clothing: the customary bespoke suit over a new-ish green shirt, the one with the exceptionally high collar. So high that the mark on Sherlock's neck was completely hidden. John frowned.

‘James Horner,’ Peterson said, and John attempted to wrest his attention back to the case. ‘Arrested last night after being identified by several hotel staff members and Lady Braithwaite’s personal assistant as having been in the corridor doing plumbing maintenance at the time the diamond –’

‘Carbuncle,’ Sherlock corrected. ‘And Braithwaite is her surname; “Lady Morcar” is her formal designation when she isn’t present.’

With a smirk, Peterson shrugged, ‘Er, right, sure. Anyway the _carbuncle_ , was stolen. No CCTV in the corridor on that floor, but the Cosmopolitan have given us their footage from the service stairwell and you can quite plainly see Horner running down and out to his van at a little past five last evening. Still got to interview other staff, lots of them had gone home or been doing other jobs in the hotel when the Countess of Morcar realised her jewel was missing at around half-ten. Inspector Bradstreet is questioning Horner now.’

‘And she didn’t have, I dunno, any alarms or anything on it?’ John asked the sergeant.

Peterson smirked again, a little too meanly for John’s taste. ‘Said she hadn’t needed it ever before. Offering a five thousand pound reward for –’

‘I need to see Horner,’ Sherlock interrupted, setting off without them. 

‘What’s the magic word,’ muttered Peterson in a sickly chime. John didn’t bother acknowledging the remark but went ahead of her toward the interview rooms.

Bradstreet was just emerging from the interview when Sherlock stopped short, John only a pace behind. Sherlock then stepped forward, and John wondered if he meant to shake Bradstreet’s hand (an unusually tactile thing for Sherlock to do, though he was prone to more pleasantries _Since_ ), but no, he stood to the inspector’s right, a full yard away from John. 

‘Holmes,’ Bradstreet nodded, before John could give Sherlock an inquiring look, ‘Dr. Watson, good to see you again. It’s not looking terribly good for _him_ , I'll tell you that.’

‘How do you mean?’ 

‘No witnesses to the theft, of course, but another plumber and one of her ladyship’s people says they saw this Horner admiring it when she was having a fitting for the Tate Gala tomorrow night.’

‘He denies he stole the jewel?’ presumed Sherlock confidently.

‘Of course,’ Bradstreet admitted with a sigh, placing his hands in his pockets, ‘but the other staff – the Countess’s PA, Catherine Cusack, the hotel’s assistant something-or-other, Ryder, the room service boy Thaw, the hotel’s plumber Huggins, all of 'em said they were surprised he had come back so late that evening to fix some vents. Felt a bit odd around him.’

‘“A bit odd”,’ Sherlock droned acidly.

‘And he’s got a record. Spent three years inside for robbery in Wiltshire in ’04,’ Peterson added. John turned to her and frowned. He had always disliked the assumption that a man once guilty was always guilty.

Fortunately Sherlock had never accepted such shoddy fact gathering before, and did not disappoint. ‘What damning evidence indeed. I need to speak with Horner, Inspector, and then the hotel staff. Then _perhaps_ , if her ladyship would grace us with her presence, the Countess herself –’

Bradstreet held up a hand. ‘Hold on, Holmes, hold on. We’re working this case, true enough, but I think Horner’s our man. And Peterson is taking another two people this morning over to the hotel to get the remaining alibis.’ He offered a slight smile.

John blinked between Peterson and Bradstreet, then at Sherlock, whose mouth had folded into a thin grimace as he spoke.

‘And you aren’t troubled by Horner’s denial? Or the blatant inconsistencies of the story? Or the expensive elephant so lamentably _absent_ in this luxurious set of rooms?’

‘We’re only been on the case since ten o’clock last night,’ Bradstreet retorted. ‘We’ll find it today. And I’ve had instructions from my chief to keep this as quiet as possible. Consolidate our people.’

After a moment, John read the tense silence. He couldn’t believe it. They were being brushed off. ‘So what are we doing here then? Chatting?’

‘We do actually get on, as professionals,’ Peterson informed him primly.

‘You phoned us!’ he half-shouted. (He bit back the fact that the phone call had interrupted a rather eventful evening which this apparent goose chase was continuing to keep him from sorting out.) Bradstreet looked a little abashed.

‘That was a bit hasty,’ Bradstreet conceded, glance pointedly flicking sideways to Peterson before returning. ‘In all the palaver last night… But it’s a police matter, and, of course, even with the private licensing laws…’ He coughed slightly as if to clear his throat. ‘And, I might say, it’s open and shut. Motive and opportunity. Would hardly be worth it for you. We’ll find the jewel once we get it all out of him, mark my words.’

Sherlock snorted with derision, and John couldn’t help but bristle as well. ‘Not twenty-four hours ago, Sherlock solved a case your _professionals_ couldn’t find their way out of with a map. Now we’re here to help and you’re saying you want us to go for a walk?’

‘It’s nothing personal,’ Bradstreet started to say, but Sherlock butted in.

‘Thank you, Inspector, we’ll be in touch.’

He whirled on his heel, leaving John to stare angrily at the police officers for an extra second. ‘No hard feelings,’ Peterson chimed, with a malicious smile, and John was tempted to remind her that he too had a criminal record. Instead he shook his head and followed Sherlock out.

Outside the station in the muggy, overcast morning light (he supposed they were in for another storm), he stopped beside Sherlock on the pavement. ‘What are we going to do now?’ he asked him.

‘Solve the case ourselves,’ Sherlock replied, ‘as always.’ 

John smiled, but then felt it sour on his face. Back to normal. 

Sherlock’s face had taken on the cold, aloof mask it donned whenever the passionate violinist and petulant child became the genius detective, icy and off-limits. Standing outside on a – he thought for a moment – Friday in late July, with the city vibrating with life around them, John considered the surreal possibility that he had indeed made the entire evening up. Made up the smell of Sherlock’s sweat where it gathered in the hollow of his neck and collarbone; made up the feeling of his calluses on John’s ribs; made up the _mind-bloody-shattering_ image of Sherlock giving him a _blowjob_ , for god’s sake. That had been anything but cold, even in the chill of John’s room. 

‘Sherlock,’ he heard himself begin. ‘I think…’ He looked up, and saw Sherlock several yards ahead already flagging a taxi.

He clenched his hand to crush his frustration into a compact controllable ball. He didn’t want to have this out in a cab, or as he hurried along (he assumed they’d be hurrying, or what Sherlock imagined in his warped, distracted, case-driven mind was a normal pace) down a stuffy posh hotel corridor. No: they would be home, _alone_ , eventually, and then they could sort it all out. Until then they would work the case, as always.

* * *

‘Lady Morcar is at a breakfast meeting,’ the fashionable woman told them just inside the hotel suite. (John could have sworn his stomach rumbled at the suggestion, but he cleared his throat to cover it just in case.) ‘I’m Catherine Cusack, her personal assistant. Is there something I can help you with?’

‘I think there is,’ John agreed amiably, while Sherlock moved about the room. In former days, he would have enjoyed the pleasant sensation of flirting with a beautiful woman, one whose stilettos put her head about three inches above his and her budget at a digit longer. Her smile was the plastic, all-purpose variety common to people in her line of work – the frontline against salesman, paparazzi, and uninvited guests – but she was also young (he guessed about thirty? not much more) and confident. And blonde. 

‘Anything to help find her ladyship’s jewel, Mr. Watson.’

‘John, please,’ he offered automatically, extending a hand. ‘We thought we–’

‘Oh gosh! It’s Doctor, isn’t it! How rude of me!’ she trilled, throwing a manicured hand to his bicep.

 _As if now is the time_ , he thought, but one of them had to be civil, particularly if the police were refusing to cooperate with Sherlock. And he was good at flirting, as convincing as Sherlock was at fake-crying. He altered his stance, and smirked. ‘No worries, I’m off-duty. Now–’ 

A crash to his left distracted both him and Ms. Cusack – Sherlock had, it seemed, upturned a crystal vase filled with three bright blue glass-spun flowers, and sent it tinkering to the carpeted floor. Thankfully, the fake flowers had no water to spill, but _really_ , how did the man dress himself? John occasionally marvelled at Sherlock’s pantherish elegance when confronted with an explosion in the kitchen or his sudden _whompf!_ of disappearance as he tripped on his scattered sheet music. 

‘ _Please_ be careful,’ implored Catherine with a pained look, as Sherlock replaced the decoration.

‘And, did Mrs. – sorry, Lady Morcar keep anything else in the safe? Anything else that was stolen, or not?’ John asked, partly to make sure the PA didn’t throw them out before Sherlock had looked round the place properly. 

Cusack tilted her head sharply to the side, looking confused. ‘Pardon, the safe? Oh no, Lady Morcar had her jewels in her lacquer rosewood box – a family heirloom itself – on the dressing table. Not in the safe.’

John blinked. ‘She left a priceless gemstone out in the open…’ 

‘Why bother even having locks on the doors!’ Sherlock wondered aloud, disappearing into the next room. ‘Are people _actually_ this idiotic?’ 

_Yes_ , John wanted to say, possibly with a hard kick to Sherlock’s shins, but he remained still.

‘Well this is hardly some South Bank motel!’ Cusack huffed, though she had to call at Sherlock’s back as he ducked into the closet, then loo, then bedroom. ‘We stay at the Cosmopolitan for just this sort of reason! They’re supposed to vet their staff more thoroughly, considering what kind of clientele they seem to expec–’

Sherlock suddenly appeared at the adjacent bedroom door. ‘I need you to go over the whole evening again, without leaving anything out.’ 

(Their whole evening, his hindbrain reminded him, had included the ridges of Sherlock’s fingerpads teasing behind his ear… – _no_.)

With a put-upon sigh and a showy glance at her watch, Cusack finally said, ‘Perhaps I should postpone my next meeting.’

* * *

‘So Braithwaite goes to her dinner, leaving John Horner and the other plumber Huggins hanging around that enormous bathroom packing up for the day, overseen by…’ John checked his notebook, ‘James Ryder, the Morcars’, what? Hotel liaison?’

‘I imagine the staff records will quite wrongly list him as a “commissionaire”,’ mused Sherlock, texting furiously, as the taxi neared Baker Street. ‘And you should see Mycroft’s bathroom. You’d be sick.’

John snorted. ‘But then Ryder leaves the room at around quarter-past-five, after Huggins has already head off home, accidentally leaving Horner unattended until he goes for his dinner...’

‘At which point all parties exeunt stage-left, Huggins to his no doubt enthralling DVD collection of lesbian-centric pornography, Thaw to his pet goat and choir practice, Cusack to her twice-weekly nail appointment, budding alcoholism, spiralling credit card debt, and Horner, it seems, to the Greggs off Regent Street.’

Rather than voice his surprise at Sherlock’s having gleaned these facts about people had only just met (‘nail appointments’ twice a week? How did she have time to grow more fingernails in between? And how did he know that Thaw had pet _goat_?), John continued talking through the sequence of events. ‘Then, after leaving her dinner party early feeling ill, she comes home, finds the place robbed, realises the stone is missing, and phones the hotel security who ring the police.’

‘The question is,’ Sherlock said, looking up as though visualising the room around himself, ‘why is Bradstreet so interested in Horner for the theft? Even a thief who could steal the Blue Carbuncle would not be simultaneously so idiotic and yet so brazen as to return to the hotel to finish work, particularly not one with a record for an offensively clumsy get-away plan in Wiltshire.’

‘How do you know he was clumsy?’ John asked, half-way between awed and exasperated.

‘He got caught.’

The taxi pulled to a halt outside 221 and Sherlock naturally leapt out. John tried not to get ahead of himself as he paid the cabbie. The case was very much on, and even in private he might not get the opportunity to discuss matters right off the bat. And he still had the niggling feeling that Sherlock was very literally putting as much space between them as possible. 

What if, a devilish voice wondered, he didn’t give Sherlock the chance to talk his way out of it? _Anything_ , Sherlock had said; with a shiver, John imagined simply cornering Sherlock against the living room door and kissing him into a withering mess who confessed to everything, including how wonderful it had been and how great it would be to give a second go…

John’s mobile buzzed in his pocket, and he drew it out – _THREE NEW MESSAGES, ONE MISSED CALL_ , he read. The call was from Harry, yesterday midday; the new text, Mike Stamford ( _You and Sherlock on this jewel heist case? If so you’re paying for my first birthday round out of that reward money! See you there. –Mike_ ) and two unread texts from the previous day… from Sherlock. 

_Idiot St Clair arrested for disrupting the peace. Case finished. –SH_

_Brought your dry cleaning from Mr. Nguyen’s. N said couldn’t completely remove bloodstain on white shirt. Have already ordered replacement. Would like to take you to Angelo’s tonight. –SH_

John tried very hard not to be floored, and failed. His good suit and best dress shirts had been on the back of his door last night, but amidst everything else he hadn’t even registered it. This, on top of Sherlock’s customary peace offering, agreeing to eat dinner. Sherlock didn’t do domestic, much as John badgered him occasionally, but this seemed… caring, somehow. And that final fragment was a minefield of its own: _Would like to take you to Angelo’s_. That sounded almost…

‘Sherlock!’ John called, climbing the stairs.

‘Sherrrlock!’ croaked a voice in their living room, and John stopped on the threshold.

‘I believe we have a visitor,’ Sherlock drawled, looking at their guests.

‘Who’s a pretty parrot?’ sang the caged bird in Sergeant Challa’s hand.

 

…


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'Sherlock glared; he was not discussing recent escalations with Mycroft, no matter what extremes of torture his brother meted out.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Sherlock is wordy.) ~~Yeah it's definitely not me, it's Sherlock, blame Sherlock.~~

Chapter 2

 

 

In John’s defence, it would have taken no less than a wrongly accused man _and_ a highly intelligent parrot to distract Sherlock from taking John to bed. Unfortunately for Sherlock’s primary plan, that was exactly what the day had in store for them.

The morning had been tense, Sherlock admitted as much to himself, but once again he was not to blame. John had fallen asleep the previous night with almost insulting speed, after not one but two orgasms in the space of as many hours, which (based on what little memory space was being wasted on the subject) Sherlock understood to be exceptional. Sherlock had managed very little sleep – and how could he, with every sensory organ absolutely packed with John _John **John**_. It was for the best that they had well and truly eradicated the flat of cigarettes, for Sherlock knew that had he had recourse to two full packs, he might have well worked through them, which might have had disastrous consequences since John did not date (i.e., kiss) smokers, which was possibly his most effective anti-smoking incentive to date.

He felt hyper-aware of John’s presence, and tried to compensate for what was, to himself if to no one else, the magnetic pole of John’s completely normal and yet totally new body at his side. (He had spent nearly an hour while John was asleep mentally preparing himself for a number of scenarios for any future sexual encounter, varying based on John’s adventurousness and their access to a more palatable brand of lubricant.)

Then of course the false alarm with Peterson – the woman had the peculiar dilemma of finding him exceptionally attractive and unprofessional, which was deeply ironic considering it was not _he_ who let such feelings get muddled up in the work –, Horner’s obvious innocence (though exactly where the carbuncle had got to, he was still working out), and John’s flirting with a botoxed divorcée in his peripheral vision… It had not been an auspicious first day of their relationship.

Sergeant Challa, on the other hand, was rising in his esteem with every encounter. Today marked a new acme in his opinion of her.

‘I found him as I was on my way home last night,’ she told them, regarding the bird – an African Grey parrot ( _Psittacus erithacus_ , if he remembered correctly) (he did) – with what was almost certainly affection. Or appraisal. (It was sometimes difficult to distinguish between the two.) ‘His wings have been clipped, I think, so he was just sort of hopping along and chattering, trying to find some shelter from the rain.’

‘Who’s a lovely bird,’ the parrot squawked, ‘pretty girl! Pretty girl!’ with such a perfect West Country accent that Sherlock could almost have told what parish she was from – if she had been human. ‘PA-PA-PA-PA-PAPAGENO, PA-PA-PA-PA-PAPAGENO!’ she shrieked, in a new, confident soprano, bobbing her head and shuffling along her perch. Fascinating.

‘Well she’s clearly been owned by someone with taste, if nothing else,’ he ventured. ‘And perhaps a sense of humour.’

Both John and Sgt. Challa gave him glassed-over looks.

‘She?’ John asked, with a strange smile Sherlock couldn’t parse.

‘Apart from the usual indicators – the smaller body, the elongated neck – she also has rounded eyes, which I believe is considered definitive. I’d have to consult a veterinarian or an ornithologist to be sure, of course.’

John’s exhale contained a laugh as he moved to sit in his armchair, and Sherlock’s mouth twitched in satisfaction. John was impressed. Excellent.

(Sherlock didn’t feel compelled to inform John, or Sgt. Challa for that matter, that he had spent the entire autumn before his sixth birthday enthralled by stories and, of course, research into the history of nautical knavery, including the requisite study of its motifs. His bitter disappointment that Christmas at not receiving either a parrot or any length of cable had been compounded by Mycroft’s taunt that Sherlock could at least ‘swab down the kitchen if he wanted to make himself useful’. Hateful.)

He re-emerged from his thoughts back to hear Sgt. Challa talking to John. ‘… and then I saw a man running away from the scene – it looked like some kids had tried to mug him, but I by the time I got there, he was off in one direction and the boys had disappeared in the other. And then I saw, erm, her on the street, almost in a puddle, and I figured–’

A series of clicks followed by a loud _Yaw!_ caught their attention: the parrot, it seemed, was trying to attract Sgt. Challa’s attention and had in the attempt all but fallen to the floor of her cage.

‘Take her out,’ Sherlock suggested. ‘And go on.’ (He was in no hurry to be alone with John, who was evidently trying to find a gentle way to confront Sherlock about the previous night’s turn of events; nor had he yet figured out how Ryder, who Catherine Cusack thought ‘too awkward and too dull’ to have stolen the jewel, had indeed done just that.)

As Sgt. Challa worked open the wire fastening of the birdcage, John murmured to him, ‘The case of the missing parrot? Really?’

‘The parrot is hardly _missing_ , John.’ He took his chair, turning to Challa. ‘And you brought the bird here because you found the name of the owner but have not been authorised to track said person down, and do not wish to leave the bird unattended for a substantial amount of time.’

Startled, Challa’s gaze flickered, then rested again on the bird, who had clambered out of her cage and gently up the sergeant’s arm, resting on her now-raised elbow. ‘I – yes, I suppose, that’s accurate. Sorry, yes, no, that’s _exactly_ it – I went back this morning, before work, to the pet shop just down the road from where I found Flint – I didn’t know she was a girl,’ Challa added, looking apologetically at the bird (as if she cared a whit), who clicked her beak at a wayward strand of dark curly hair. ‘Anyway, the strange man at the Alpha Exotic Pets shop –’

‘Confirmed that he had sold a Congolese African Grey yesterday evening and gave you the surname but not the address of his client,’ Sherlock finished. 

‘At which point, you naturally thought we’d want her,’ chimed in John, sarcastically.

‘I…’ Challa seemed to consider John’s insinuation of absurdity. ‘You’re right. I suppose I saw how you handled everything with the St Clair case yesterday and for some reason I just…’ (Sherlock felt John’s tension lessen minutely at this flattery; little did Challa appreciate how John warmed considerably to any expression of the value of their work.) She frowned and stroked the parrot’s head softly. ‘I love animals,’ she concluded, by way of explanation.

‘Evidently so,’ Sherlock conceded. ‘Well you’ve already been reprimanded once this week for failing to disclose your whereabouts or answer your chief inspector – incidentally you should consider a higher vibrate setting if you’re going to leave your mobile on “silent” while out on cases, it’s rung twice since you’ve been here –’ Challa gave a small cry of surprise and took both hands to her pockets, sending ‘Flint’ (oh, Challa was definitely going on his mental list of allies) to the floor with a flutter of wings and an unceremonious _PEEP!_

‘Sorry!’ Challa cried, horrified at her carelessness. 

‘You’re welcome,’ replied Flint shrilly, as she waddled across the carpet. ‘Te amo! Ich liebe dich! Ani ohev otach! HAUGHHH!’ Flint finished, with a truly disgusting mock-cough.

‘Well. This has been a _delight_ ,’ said John, rising, careful to keep his feet planted and an eye on the bird. ‘I’m sure we’ll find–’

‘Yes, Sergeant, Dr. Watson and I will send for you when we have news.’ He bent and scooped up the parrot, placing her swiftly on his shoulder, and feeling her faint clutch of talons through his shirt. _Perfect._

John’s body language shifted into an argumentative posture, and he groaned, ‘ _No_ , Sherlock–’

‘Thank you!’ Challa was saying, a little gushingly, as she drew her phone from her pocket and began to dial. ‘And if you can’t find him – Baker, first initial H. on the receipt, I’ll leave that with you – I’m happy to keep her myself! I just – well thanks!’

Sherlock nodded and let her make her escape. After the front door _thudded_ shut downstairs, he pivoted, with more than usual carefulness, to look at John, who was, as expected, scowling.

‘Mrs. Hudson is going to kill you,’ he informed Sherlock, arms crossed.

‘You frequently invoke Mrs. Hudson whenever you wish to disapprove of something I’ve contributed to the flat.’

‘Contributed!’ John shouted, throwing his arms up and marching to the kitchen. (Tea – a very good idea; calming and satiating in equal measure.) ‘For fuck’s sake, Sherlock, if I wanted a sodding _pigeon_ –’

‘African Grey parrots are widely considered to be among the most intelligent species on Earth, John.’ (John had once shared a _goldfish_ with Harry, how could he possibly complain about truly superior pets!) ‘And how long do you anticipate it will take me to figure out how Ryder stole the carbuncle? I’m sure we can work both cases at once.’ 

Valuable animals often went on long waitlists, one of which almost certainly contained a ‘Henry Baker’ (as the careful script on the receipt noted). In addition to which, Sherlock was confident, this bird in particular had been trained certain phrases which gave clues as to the residence, occupation, and intention of her would-be owner. Child’s play.

‘Ryder?’ John repeated incredulously, pantomiming a search as if Ryder (yes _of course_ Ryder!) was to be found lurking behind a lamp or beneath their furniture. ‘Since when is Ryder the suspect?’

‘Since approximately six o’clock last evening when he stole it.’

‘UGH!’ His hands dug reflexively into eyesockets, a common gesture of aggravation which John exercised frequently. (John’s hands – later, when they had solved the case(s), Sherlock could easily devote at least an hour to the minutiae of John’s incredibly expressive hands.)

‘Pa-pa pa pa pa? pa-pa pa pa pa?’ pealed Flint, _sotto voce_ , at Sherlock’s left ear. He shifted (taking his steps as evenly as possible) to stand by the window. 

He needed to think.

* * *

The problem was, of course, that he had no logical argument to convince John that they should repeat (with room for modification) everything that had happened between them since their conversation on the sofa the previous night. He maintained his chief points – that the two episodes alone had been more potent than the entire sum of his prior sexual encounters; that, in apocryphal military parlance, they had already crossed the Rubicon and thus there was little point in retreating; that his technique, though perhaps only acceptable at first, was sure to improve with practice; that he was _sure_ , on a cellular, possibly atomic, level, that he loved John as he loved nothing else, neither music nor cases. But his reasoning was, lamentably, entirely subjective.

And he felt certain, characterised by a growing prickling at the back of his neck (nothing to do with Flint, who was currently balancing on one leg on the handle of their (hideous) mod-era yellow lamp, echoing Sherlock’s tunes), that John was working up to a speech along the lines of ‘carried away’ and ‘moving too fast’, while Sherlock was plucking notes from his violin and muttering to himself in order to give himself something to do rather than tear his own hair out at the madness of ‘too fast’. 

On top of which, he had no insight into the carbuncle case.

‘ _Bing-bong!_ ’ Flint told him, interrupting Act II mid-bar. Sherlock froze.

Few things encouraged Sherlock to believe in a vindictive cosmos so much as the appearance, in such moments as these, of his brother on the landing.

* * *

A mere ten minutes later and he was contemplating pulling his hair out for an entirely different reason. Seated in _his_ chair, Mycroft was telling John, in a carrying, stage-worthy oration, about the popularity of the latter’s blog post about the (now former) President Murillo case. Sherlock deliberately struck a sour note.

‘You never did practise enough,’ Mycroft preened, turning to look at him.

‘That is _patently untrue_ ,’ he bit back, before he could stop himself. His fingers swiped quickly at his violin, unconsciously curling into the leitmotif which Flint seemed (no doubt as a result of her musical education) to mimic with particular pleasure.

John re-emerged from the kitchen, where (for forty-two minutes before Mycroft’s unfailingly ill-timed arrival) he had been deleting every third word on his attempts at a write-up for the St Clair case and making scoffing noises at their (rather talented) temporary pet.

‘Taking up _birdcatching_ , brother dear?’ inquired Mycroft serenely. 

Sherlock’s ears burned; of course Mycroft had noticed their situation. ‘And how go the troop withdrawals, Mycroft? Everyone home on schedule?’ he parried. (This was an area proven to alienate his brother from John, a move Sherlock was keen to foster since they were behaving rather too much as they considered Sherlock and his parrot the opposition.)

‘Ah, but if only we all had your notions of homecoming, Sherlock, we might surprise a great many people with the resilience of our armed forces.’

Stung, Sherlock fell silent. He had miscalculated that hit.

John was frowning deeply, a guarded hurt in his eyes that Sherlock had only recently stopped seeing. ‘Just here to brighten up our day, Mycroft?’ he asked curtly.

His brother had the decency to look somewhat uncomfortable, though he could not possibly be as regretful as Sherlock, who felt darkly that this was exactly the sort of behaviour that would preclude John from wanting to repeat _any_ of their previous encounter. 

For an instant, Mycroft’s critical gaze passed over both John and himself, then met his eye with an almost imperceptible flicker of warning. (His brother, unlike John, _did_ know about both Victor and Alec, including Victor’s role in his detective career and Alec’s in his addiction history.) Tight-lipped, Sherlock did his best to mask his expression. 

‘I believe you visited the apartments of the Countess of Morcar this morning?’ Mycroft pronounced, after a moment. He knew damn well where they had been, and probably how much they had paid for the cab fare and, thought Sherlock mutinously, how close John had been standing to Catherine Cusack before Sherlock had had to break (well, nearly break) an antique Waterford fluted vase.

‘And you’re here to tell us to leave it alone,’ John completed with a scowl.

‘Quite the opposite,’ Mycroft informed him, smiling repellently. ‘Lord Morcar–’

With a rustle of wings which sent a newspaper and some toast crumbs to the floor, Flint shuffled and hooted in a half-hearted attempt at flight, making her way to where Sherlock’s bow hand had been resting near the table edge. He offered her his sleeved wrist, onto which she mounted, while he relished the opportunity to ignore Mycroft as ostentatiously as possible.

Mycroft stared for a moment at Flint, his expression reminiscent of a man interrupted midway through a succulently spiced gammon and asked if he would like some ketchup. Eventually he continued, ‘Touching though this turn to domesticity is,’ (Sherlock glared; he was _not_ discussing recent escalations with Mycroft, no matter what extremes of torture his brother meted out) ‘I believe we both have work to attend to, so I will simply impress upon you that Lord Morcar would look very favourably indeed upon the person – or, persons,’ he conceded, with a delusional tip of his imaginary hat, ‘—who could return his family’s estimable heirloom.’

‘And supposing the police refuse to let–’

‘I’m bored,’ said Flint.

For a moment they were all silent. Then John burst out laughing, an enormous smile across his face that utterly erased the tension of a moment ago. ‘You have _got_ to be joking.’

Equally shocked, Sherlock was about to insist his innocence in the bird’s phraseology, but didn’t get the chance.

‘Knock knock,’ Flint picked up eagerly. ‘Who’s there? Orange you glad I didn’t say banana? _Hyuck hyuck!_ ’

Beaming, John looked at Sherlock, shaking his head in a slow manner not at all unlike his disbelief when Sherlock did something apparently remarkable. ‘She laughs at her own jokes. No wonder you like her.’

Sherlock struggled to appear insulted while inwardly his stomach was wriggling with joy. Maybe they could train her to act as intermediary to diffuse John’s anger whenever Sherlock crossed an especially significant line –

‘We’re _not_ keeping the bird, Sherlock,’ John headed him off, getting to his feet and moving toward the kettle.

‘I would have thought this particular folly had been concluded long ago,’ Mycroft wondered haughtily, studying his customary umbrella like an absurd anachronism of a Dickensian walking stick. (All that was missing were sheepskin gloves and a powdered wig and he would have been indistinguishable from an exhibit in the V&A: “Victorian windbag”, the label would read. Sherlock smirked.) ‘Perhaps I should prepare his lordship for disappointment.’ He rose, and not a moment too soon. 

‘A pointless visit, as ever, Mycroft,’ he told his brother, preparing to accompany him out with something trite and _modern_ , and raised his bow. As he did so, Flint released a convincing terrier-esque _woof!_ and shifted her feet, before suddenly –

‘AH!’ Mycroft grunted, throwing his hands up to protect himself and dropping the umbrella, while John swung around in the kitchen, shouted inarticulately, and stepped forward (too late) to help, while Sherlock tried not to damage the bird, his violin, or this single instance of perfect cosmic retribution.

With Flint (‘Excuse me! EEP! Sorry! Oh no!’) settling on Mycroft’s shoulder and nibbling at his lapels, Sherlock allowed the moment to wash over him. 

‘I think she likes you,’ John said pleasantly, standing back to admire the view. He began patting his pockets exaggeratedly. ‘Now if only I had my camera…’

‘Use mine,’ Sherlock suggested, digging his phone from his trousers to hand it over. ‘Make sure you switch it to “video”— ’

‘Say, “cheese”!’ John tapped the screen which emitted a faux-shutter snap. ‘Well, that’s the Christmas photo sorted for the year. Check that off my to-do list.’

Mycroft swerved slightly and attempted to catch the parrot in both hands, but received a frightened nip in return. Rather than injure Flint, Sherlock, mentally preparing a monograph on parrot intelligence, moved forward to reclaim her. His brother was squirming as Flint groomed ruffled feathers from her plumage, preventing Sherlock from getting a firm hold. Then, suddenly, Flint gripped Mycroft’s right shoulder tightly, lifted her bright red tail, and defecated on Mycroft’s £780 suit.

The only thing more wonderful than Mycroft’s pale face as he exited 221b (no doubt in the direction of his dry cleaner) was John’s irrepressible laughter as it carried on long after he had gone.

 

…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those curious, [this](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ezrW_bI6mWY#t=00m23s) is the trill/riff/leitmotif Sherlock -- and therefore Capt. Flint -- plays. To appreciate the bird-brained (oh man am I sorry), though, you have to see [this amazing production](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AE_f95sI0KA#t=14m33s) with Gerald Finley as Papageno.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Between Yard sergeants, Mycrofts, and landladies, they were apparently never going to be alone again for the rest of time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, all mistakes mine. (See one, [let me know](http://arabella-strange.tumblr.com/ask).)

Chapter 3

‘…and several of the other ladies from the chorus line have taken ill, but it really was only for a day or two. I expect it’s going around, you know, this time of year. All this damp and people not wearing proper coats.’

John nodded, feeling gently her at lymph nodes, and prompting her to open her mouth so he could look: yes, red, inflamed. Ill. ‘Maybe you should reschedule, just for one day – no reason to get yourself stuck in a downpour. Lemsip and an early night? Then maybe –’

‘ _HAAACK!_ Achoo!’ Flint sang. ‘Oh lor!’

‘See?’ John agreed, looking back at Mrs. Hudson. ‘ _That_ is not a good cough.’

She smiled kindly at him, eyes crinkling in half-moons. ‘John, I may not be in my youth, dear, but I don’t plan on staying in bed because of every tiny cough or ache, or I’d never get out of it!’

‘Of course not, Mrs. Hudson,’ Sherlock called approvingly from the sitting room to the kitchen. ‘Immune system like yours, only strengthened by minor infections. We can reasonably expect another fifteen years of ridiculous dance routines and unnecessary hair-dye.’

‘Dance, get down! Blame it on the boogie!’ Flint added, spreading her wings and flicking her shock-red tail in a surprisingly agile parody of a kick-line.

John snuck a glance at Sherlock in his peripheral vision, half-seeing him pace in thought. Flint was also watching him curiously from her perch (apparently now settled, despite the fact that John had _distinctly_ told Sherlock they could not keep a bird) on the bend in the heavy brass lamp. She had been conversing happily with Sherlock almost incessantly, offering her strange strand of tangential, slightly surreal commentary whenever Sherlock voiced a deductive fragment aloud. Neither of them had spoken to or come near John since Mycroft had left.

Mrs. Hudson stirred, getting off the stool with a pat to his knee, and he realised he had basically been staring. It had been a long time since Mrs. Hudson had bothered to comment (obliquely of course) on his and Sherlock’s odd, somewhat tumultuous habits, so he was hardly surprised that she hid a smirk as she went to place her teacup in the sink. She did not appear to have other symptoms besides the cough, so, he conceded, she was probably right in thinking it just a summer cold; but she – like Sherlock, no wonder they got on so well – often refused help, so her venturing up to have him check was, itself, an indicator of her ill health. He watched her in case she needed his arm.

‘John Watson, I am not some little old lady on death’s door!’ she scolded, placing her hands firmly on her hips. (She probably danced better than he did, at any age.)

He smiled and shrugged. ‘Send me anyone who says otherwise, I’ll take care of ‘em.’ He stepped back to allow her room. ‘Besides,’ he added, lowering his voice, ‘I always need you to help me in case Himself solves the great parrot caper and starts climbing the walls.’

She nodded fondly, then stifled a small cough, which unfortunately set off the bird into a full rheumatic fit.

‘Oh honestly!’ Mrs. Hudson exclaimed. ‘It isn’t all that bad!’ When the parrot had concluded her noise and went back to sporadic peeps, Mrs. Hudson made to leave, patting John’s arm as she went. She did a lot of patting. ‘Do let me know what you decide about the bird, won’t you?’

‘We are _not_ keeping it, I promise.’

‘T’ra!’ Flint wished her cheerfully. ‘Thanks for the cake!’

‘Ah!’ Mrs. Hudson cried suddenly, ‘my cinnamon buns!’ And she dashed off, no doubt – judging from the clatter a moment later of baking tins and her frustrated moan – to attempt to salvage another very ‘well-done’ baking foray.

Still, he tried not to feel just a little bit grateful to close the door behind her, even though the parrot’s mimicry of that cough made him a little worried: small tickles quickly became deeper, serious respiratory infections, particularly in those of ‘mature’ years, and especially when combined with damp. They would have to keep a closer eye on her for a few days.

But her visit had interrupted the half-hour bubble of thick tranquillity that had followed Mycroft’s departure. Not that his visit itself had been anything but disturbing, but it had provided John with possibly his favourite rarity of life at Baker Street:

Sherlock’s laugh.

Sherlock’s eyes often flickered with amusement; other times he parroted (John’s mind was swimming with puns) a high, elegant trill which grated on John’s nerves as eerily as if it were a siren blaring, ‘Fake _laugh_ , fake _laugh_ ’ on his eardrums. 

Sherlock’s real laugh, though, was deep and a tiny bit stupid, wrinkling his face as his chest rumbled with genuine mirth. When he laughed, Sherlock sounded drunk, more so than when he was actually past his alcohol tolerance. And somehow his laugh itself was intoxicating. For the full silent half-hour or so after Mycroft’s hurried exit, John had attempted to sift through newspaper notices, while largely just staring at Sherlock, whose laughter echoed in his ears. And Sherlock’s prolonged inattentiveness had the reverse impact of holding John’s attention hostage. Even amidst her honking, singing, and one-sided conversing, Flint had seemed just as interested, nipping at Sherlock’s hair and collar (grating once along his bruise and making Sherlock hiss) until he gave in and scratched her chin. (John had to remind himself, absurdly, not to be jealous of a _bird_.)

Now again, Sherlock was standing at the window, absent-mindedly tapping out something complicated with his fingers in midair as if tickling a fidgety ghost. With his other hand, though, he was stroking a half-lidded Flint, who was restless but leaning into his touch. 

For a moment, John was overwhelmed with affection for the wild, brusque genius who was unconsciously placating their exotic pet. (The bird, in spite of himself, was growing on him.) But today, while he did feel slightly, madly drawn to this more pliable Sherlock, irritation sparked between his shoulder blades and along his lower abdomen, both because Sherlock was clearly avoiding any contact with John, and because, between Yard sergeants, Mycrofts, and landladies, _they were apparently never going to be alone again for the rest of time._

Standing by the shut door, he meant to say, ‘We can either talk about this now, or we can talk about it later, but we _will_ talk about it.’

What he heard himself say, softly, was instead, ‘We can’t keep the bird, Sherlock.’

At the exact same moment, Sherlock turned, parrot swaying on his shoulder as if in a stiff breeze, and announced loudly, ‘We need to speak to Lady Morcar.’

They blinked at each other. 

‘What do you need from her?’ John asked, picking up that thread of conversation. ‘Bradstreet might have told her not to talk to us. And she’ll be difficult to get a hold of anyway,’ he added, for practicality’s sake. Sherlock tended to forget the details like opening hours and entrance fees and rush-hour traffic.

‘Mycroft came on errand to keep us on the case.’ He lifted a finger and helped Flint off his shoulder and into her cage, where she stumbled briefly (she looked a pretty exhausted from the day’s excitement) before climbing to rest blearily on her perch. ‘I imagine she’ll be able to give us a better picture of her movements, and the staff’s, from last night.’ 

‘You think Cusack was lying?’

‘She’s a PR consultant, of course she was lying,’ Sherlock reeled. ‘The question is, about whom, and _why_.’

Sherlock went to go fetch his thick coat (though why he bothered, in this weather, John felt sure was almost entirely down to stubbornness). 

‘Have fun!’ Flint cheeped sleepily, and John marvelled again at how clearly she understood their movements. She recited for about the millionth time the riff from Sherlock’s violin, the one that reminded him faintly of Harry’s favourite musical from their childhoods, Oliver!, but he didn’t know exactly why. ‘Pax vobiscum!’ 

John turned to Sherlock. ‘Was that Latin?’

* * *

The Countess of Morcar was, apparently, expecting them for lunch. John obliquely saw Sherlock don his poshest, suavest persona, giving everything he did – sitting at the immaculate table, splaying out his coat around him, declining to eat anything beyond a roll of bread, ogling the room for the second time that day – an air of entitled disinterest. He looked as much at home as Lady Morcar did. It was a well-practised performance designed to attract no attention whatsoever.

Lady Ayenat Braithwaite, on the other hand, was completely eye-catching. She was probably, John thought to himself, the most beautiful woman he had ever seen in real life. A previous case had involved a lot of (ultimately irrelevant) research into East African goddesses and superstitions; John considered, now faced with the almost literal radiance of the Countess, that he too would have worshipped any woman who sat elegantly, spoke deeply, and smiled widely like that. Then again – as the newspaper photos and caption had reminded him – she had been an actual international supermodel before her marriage, so she was basically worshipped everywhere she went.

‘You returned surprisingly early from such an important dinner, Madam,’ Sherlock was inquiring, not touching his meal. John settled into his role of silent listener and forked a mouthful of his (no doubt hideously expensive) spinach quiche.

‘I do not know that it was _so_ important a function,’ she corrected cheerily, picking daintily at her food. ‘I was… I had not felt entirely myself yesterday, and it seemed rather the greater faux pas to present several eminent peers with the evidence of my feeling.’ Her gold earrings fluttered as she shook her head, sending pale-yellow reflections along her toffee-brown skin. ‘And certainly Lord Morcar stayed on to, as it were, keep up the side.’

Sensing a pause, John swallowed and asked her, ‘Why didn’t you keep the jewel in your safe?’

She turned her bright, intense gaze toward him, and he felt instantly that she was the sort of woman who got what she wanted, through sheer force of personality rather than tricks or ploys. And her cheekbones…

‘I had been planning, Dr. Watson, to keep it for the debut to an unequivocally more important function – the gala for my own personal charity, the Water Round The Horn group – tomorrow evening. I have made something of a tradition of…’ she looked momentarily bashful, then smirked, and continued, ‘of making a wish on the stone for good luck. A silly exercise, I know, but so far it has proved entirely powerful. The Carbuncle was a gift from my husband upon our marriage, you see, and it seemed a far more appropriate moment for something so… sentimental.’ She smiled again, eyes warm. ‘If I am to be forced to dance, I intend to draw on all my advantages.’

John fully expected Sherlock to launch into a well-rehearsed tirade against ‘good luck’ charms and other illogical and in every way idiotic superstitions, but was surprised to hear him ask instead, ‘Is there any possibility your husband stole the jewel for the insurance?’

‘None, happily. We are incredibly fortunate.’

‘And is there any possibility your husband is having an affair? Or that you are?’ he pressed.

She positively beamed with good humour. ‘Mr. Holmes, you exceed even your own reputation for indiscretion.’ (John managed not to snort into his quiche at the idea that _this_ was Sherlock at his most indiscreet.) ‘Had you met my husband, you would not need to ask me this.’ Her fluid, melodic voice seemed to vibrate with her accent as much as her evident amusement at this absurd idea. (And, John admitted to himself, no man would be likely to find a more beautiful, self-assured, capable-seeming woman than the Countess, but of course, cheating wasn’t really about behaving rationally.)

‘How often do you stay at the Cosmopolitan, my lady?’

‘Once or twice a month,’ she estimated. ‘We originally kept a house in London for our visits but it seemed such an extravagance to keep the staff and rooms prepared at all times when we receive perfectly adequate comfort here. Recent events aside, of course.’ (If five-star room service and silk-and-crystal furnishings were ‘adequate’, John shuddered to think what sort of house she considered ‘extravagant’…)

‘But always here?’

‘For the past two years or so, yes.’

‘You reported that the dressing table had been broken into, as well as some papers and several other drawers and items disturbed.’

She nodded, sniffing her pastry and then apparently thinking the better of it. Suddenly, John thought over her face and – oh, yes, excellent – he loved being able to deduce something Sherlock had missed. He was going to savour that once they left.

‘And yet nothing else was taken?’ Sherlock went on, with a tone of disbelief, and the Countess inclined her head.

‘I agree, that there were several other items of great value on that table which would certainly have been all too easy to take, for a desperate man. But surely the Carbuncle is enough!’

‘Enough for what,’ he muttered, eyes scanning the room again.

John looked up, stowing his notepad in his inside pocket. ‘Don’t worry, we don’t charge for enigma.’

Lady Morcar’s eyes sparkled, and he ate the last bite of his lunch with what was probably a stupefied, boyish smile on his face.

‘I cannot impress upon you both the personal value of that stone. I would, as I have told the press, reward the recoverers accordingly.’ 

She placed her napkin over her plate and smiled, which was, it seemed, their cue to go. Sherlock was already getting to his feet, and, with a nod of thanks, made his way directly for the lift. A little annoyed, John quickly shook Lady Morcar’s hand (her eyes were full of enjoyment at Sherlock’s rather tactless getaway) and said goodbye.

‘Good luck,’ Catherine Cusack wished them in the foyer, re-entering the room while still texting furiously.

‘It isn’t _luck_ ,’ Sherlock huffed, punching the lift button. John rolled his eyes.

As the doors closed, John considered how, had things been very, very different, he would have thought Sherlock an insensitive arse for his behaviour. As it was, John was absolutely mad, a fact he recognised by his powerful longing to seize the moment and press Sherlock against the finely polished wall of the lift and see how breathless he could make him before they reached the lobby. But – again? Really? – Sherlock had placed himself in the farthest possible place in the not especially large confined space, making John’s fantasy seem wholly unwelcome. He put his hands on his thighs instead and said, ‘You can see why she got work.’

‘Ayenat Braithwaite most frequently posed for a selection of high-profile charitable organisations,’ Sherlock told him matter-of-factly. John was far more surprised that Sherlock knew about which companies the Countess had modelled for than at the work itself.

‘I doubt she’ll be doing much modelling for a while,’ he suggested, feeling rather pleased.

‘Are pregnant women not considered attractive?’

John staggered. ‘How do _you_ know–’

‘Faint smell of sick, poorly masked by heavy Chanel perfume; distaste for milk even though she prefers it in her tea; recent weight gain and dizziness; and her inflated sense of her husband’s worth as a result of hormonal fluctuations meant to foster relations to inspire equal sharing of parental duties. Incidentally she has not told her husband yet and I imagine we will be sent a confidentiality clause by the morning.’

John really could have kissed the smug look of smugness off his smug stupid face, but was spared the pleasure by the lift doors springing open.

One step into the lobby and Sherlock grabbed him and shoved him behind (and nearly into) a potted palm tree.

‘Jesus!’ John whispered angrily, into the inside of Sherlock’s hand which he found clapped across his mouth. Sherlock pulled him into the stylised recess in the wall near a totally useless curtain. John pushed away the hand – honestly, he wasn’t twelve – but tried to marshal his suddenly frenzied thoughts. They were standing very close together (which, had he not spent the last twelve hours at more than arm’s length from the man, would have been totally unremarkable given the long precedent for proximity) in view of the front desk. A prematurely balding, spotty, morose youngish man with a jaw like an orangutan was biting his nails. He was clearly pale by nature, but in the grey afternoon sunlight seemed almost sickly gaunt, jumping as a suitcase knocked the marble tile across the hall. After another moment (during which John was fleetingly distracted by the curl of hair at the very back of Sherlock’s exposed neck – _no_ ), the nervous bloke wiggled awkwardly from behind the counter to squint at a surprisingly short businessman in braces and a too-tight pinstripe suit. Eventually, with a sigh of relief, another hotel employee descended and led them both in the direction of… whatever they needed.

Immediately, Sherlock moved away from John and glided gracefully out the front door. Closing his eyes, John took a moment to breathe. He needed to stifle whatever bitter retort had welled up in his throat at being treated like he’d rolled in a dog turd. But of course, he had years of training, military and Holmesian, which had taught him to hold his peace until either asked or necessitated by danger.

Once again, Sherlock flagged a taxi, directed them homeward, and began sending a whirl of texts. It wasn’t that John was embarrassed at trying to have this talk in a cab – god knew they had had far more gruesome conversations in broad daylight and in occasionally front of John’s girlfriends. It was more that the furious pace of his texting threw a brick wall between Sherlock and himself, only adding to the full two feet of space on the cab bench.

No, the safety of their home was the best bet, not least because, if things went even a little bit well, he wanted to take his time with Sherlock on the sofa. (And, of course, if things crashed and burned, as now seemed more likely, he would at least be only seconds from his own room, rather than trapped and repelled by an unresponsive Sherlock indefinitely.) 

But, he vowed, when they got home, he would not be brushed off by siblings, honorary aunts, policemen, parrots, or worst of all, consulting detectives.

* * *

It was after two o’clock when they walked into Baker Street, to find the entire flat silent. John wondered if Flint was asleep, so, shrugging off his coat, he peered round the kitchen –

‘Sherlock…’

‘Sergeant Challa must have clocked off early,’ he cut in smoothly. ‘Mrs. Hudson will have let her in before going to tea with Mrs. Evans.’ Sherlock strode over to the desk, apparently to put his pen back in the drawer on his side, but (John saw) his fingers traced lingeringly over a scuff where the cage had been.

It was horribly endearing, Sherlock in a poorly concealed sulk about a parrot when they had a case – two cases, even – on. Even the thought of Sherlock concealing any kind of sulk was dizzying, particularly as John’s eyes couldn’t help but rake down Sherlock’s back hungrily… The clock on the bookshelf by the door ticked with deafening strokes after a full day of nonstop noise, and John exhaled with relief. 

They were, _at last_ , alone.

John considered going to stand next to him, but simply couldn’t bring himself to go so close in so unambiguously deliberate a movement, today of all days. He sat on the sofa instead.

‘You still think it’s Ryder?’

‘Yes,’ Sherlock confirmed. ‘Only someone determined to get the carbuncle exclusively would do such a poor job of faking a burglary. Horner either is or isn’t a cunning burglar, but he cannot be both. Meanwhile we still have no evidence to free him, nor of the current whereabouts of the jewel itself. If Ryder had intended to sell it and live off the profits, he would hardly have turned up to his shift today, to say nothing of his appallingly obvious guilty demeanour.’

John started. ‘ _That_ was Ryder?’ 

Sherlock examined him despairingly. ‘A hotel employee with full access to all floors, who looks like, in Cusack’s words, “the sort of man who never has a life and simply shouldn’t try”?’ He frowned.

‘You could admit just once that you saw his name badge,’ John prompted.

Wheeling around to argue, Sherlock saw John’s wry smirk, and sighed through his nose. ‘Meanwhile I have no leads about Henry Baker. I did instruct a few people from my regular network to post flyers around Goodge Street with Baker’s name and our emails to collect the bird tomorrow. It’s hardly as direct as if he’d left a watch or a hat, but we’ll see.’

‘A hat?’

Sherlock looked surprised. ‘A hat contains a surfeit of deductive evidence. So few people wear hats these days, which narrows the pool considerably to begin with to those with punk or goth tendencies, ceremonial positions, or no sense of style whatsoever.’

John snorted. 

For a moment, Sherlock seemed about to flee, but, after a breathless pause, he sat down, almost absurdly bunched across the no-man’s-land which had once been their sofa. 

Before he could lose his nerve, John said, as evenly as he could, ‘Thanks, by the way, for… for getting my shirts.’

‘It was on my way,’ Sherlock deflected.

‘It really wasn’t.’ John looked at him pointedly. ‘Maybe tomorrow, or whenever the, er, case is finished…’ He licked his lips anxiously, the same prickle along his skin from the last time they’d sat here, except today he could see very clearly the red colour of Sherlock’s mouth and the frozen angle of his beautiful hands; couldn’t see the blotch he’d sucked into Sherlock’s neck or the unmarked places his own hands had touched and pulled and slid. ‘Maybe we can go to Angelo’s and I can not pay him with my half of our gemstone finders’ fee. Though obviously I’m not going to be terribly keen on eating anything with wings for about the next hundred years so it’s basically Bolognese or vegetarian for me…’ 

He was rambling, he knew, and he wasn’t even sure Sherlock was interested, sitting still and almost vacant, his mouth in a stern tight line. He might not even be listening, John thought with a cold ripple down his spine. 

Then:  
‘I believe I offered to not-pay,’ Sherlock said quietly.

John breathed somewhere half-between a laugh and an exasperated sigh, and nodded. Then – _oh fuck it_ , he thought, the gambler’s thrill in his veins, and leaned in –

Suddenly Sherlock stood and stepped two wide strides away; at the last second John caught himself, nearly face-planting into the cushion, as a cold, confused, furious sensation plummeted in his stomach and twisted. Sherlock, looking possibly homicidal, yanked his jacket into pristine order, and shouted –

‘Really, Sergeant, the whole point of your taking the bird was to give us the opportunity to–’

‘But look!’ Sgt. Challa called, panting and running into the room. ‘LOOK!’

In her outstretched hand was, John could only assume, the Blue sodding Carbuncle.

 

…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All comments greatly appreciated. Also sorry for the timing -- moved continents this week and am a little jetlagged. x


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'Walking back into the flat over an hour later, Sherlock felt a renewed sense of justification in his hatred of most members of his species.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I took some liberties, both with parrot anatomy (which I only - ahem - stretched) and with sugar content. Forgive me.

Chapter 4

 

It was extremely fortunate for the sergeant standing in their living room for the third time in less than six hours that he had vowed, mentally to both John and himself, never to kill any human being for the rest of his days (barring in self-defence or to protect others). Of course, how Sherlock defined his vow in terms of ‘protect’ and ‘kill’ and ‘ _never_ ’ was suddenly in grave danger of being redrafted.

‘It’s the Carbuncle!’ she told him, wholly unnecessarily.

‘Yes, _obviously_ , Sergeant,’ he snarled, eyes not on the jewel dazzling in her hand, but rather on the exiting figure of John, who had choked out a harsh, impatient laugh that made Sherlock’s hair stand metaphorically on end, before he marched his retreat in the direction of the bathroom.

He shifted his gaze back to Challa, who quite rightly seemed to have realised her positively _horrendous_ timing. ‘I… I’m sorry for – I shouldn’t have barged in –’

‘Where did you find it?’ Sherlock barked, shaking away her now useless apologies. (The tap was running – John was, what? Not brushing his teeth – no – ah – splashing his neck with water – his customary sobering technique.)

‘I was just making dinner and Flint made this horrible racket, and then I heard this loud _ping!_ , like something striking metal, so I turned –’

Sherlock downgraded Sgt. Challa’s level of peril to merely moderate. ‘She _excreted_ it?’

The sergeant nodded animatedly, holding out her hand again – distracted as he was, he had not noticed the layer of green and white fecal matter under her fingernails – she wasn’t squeamish, which in this case was directly profitable, to the rough sum of several thousand pounds.

‘That is not hygienic,’ said John, re-entering the room. (His lip was downturned in a firm, thin line, not very but crucially different from the solemn, risk-assessing ridge of a moment earlier. Sherlock attempted to read his expression – angry, but determined – was he upset by Challa’s interruption or Sherlock’s entertaining of the case at this inopportune moment? His body language was mixed and therefore perplexing.)

‘Well no, but, I washed my hands. And I mean… look at it!’ she insisted.

Sherlock happened to agree, though John was correct in considering the potential health hazards if she did not properly decontaminate her skin and nailbeds. (This did, however, confirm Sherlock’s near-certainty that Sgt. Challa lived alone.)

He plucked the jewel carefully from her palm, examining it at eye-level. The Blue Carbuncle, as the stock photograph from the Morcar estate archives had shown, was indeed a lustrous, azure gemstone of slightly larger size than a grape, smeared slightly from its recent excretion but nevertheless of visible brilliancy. It had been cut into a precise ‘emerald’ shape but would have been absurdly oversized for any setting smaller than a tiara, which was unsuitable for anyone below a duchess (and even then).

John eyed the stone over Challa’s shoulder, then looked at Sherlock seriously. ‘You’re sure this is the real stone?’ he asked. 

‘Yes.’ Sherlock returned John’s gaze for a moment, hoping John understood – he could not, now he had been presented with the single unifying piece to make sense of the puzzle, ignore it, any more than John could ignore Mrs. Hudson’s (admittedly slightly worrying) cough. The sooner he traced the stone back to through the last eventful few days, the sooner he would understand, and the sooner he could get _rid_ of all these awful, unnecessary people _who were not John_ , even the unknown Henry Baker and the falsely accused John Horner, whose spectre seemed to loom at the corners of Sherlock’s consciousness repeating, ‘Innocent, innocent, _innocent_ ’, until his brain screamed –

He closed his eyes. Retraced his steps back through his mental fortress to the quiet, peaceful sanctum of this room: the carpet, the wallpaper, the clock, the slipper hanging over the mantelpiece, the tower of medical journals and old case notes stacked by the door, John’s chair across from his, the sound of his violin.

He opened his eyes: Challa was still talking, somehow, but John was watching him closely with a slightly altered expression. 

_Antarctica_ , said John’s voice in his memory. Suddenly even the previous evening seemed continents away.

Frowning, Sherlock returned his attention to Sgt. Challa and began to pace as he attempted to fit the narrative into alignment with the evidence. _What_ was the connection between the Countess of Morcar and the H. Baker who had purchased a jewel-laden parrot in Bloomsbury? How did Ryder – if indeed he was correct it was Ryder (he was 85% sure) – steal the carbuncle only to lose it? Was Baker his confederate, hoping to traffic the bird out of town – but no, he had _left_ the bird hobbling in the street... So was that merely a coincidence? Was it the Alpha Pet Club itself that was the key, a thieves’ front for passing goods – but again, they would hardly have sold Flint to an outsider if the entire object was transport of items; and in any event, Flint had been hand-reared, and cared for as well as taught a variety of polyglot phrases – no, the shop was not the key either…

‘Aren’t you supposed to bring this to Bradstreet?’ John asked her bluntly. ‘You’re a police officer.’ (It was an impulsive question, no doubt sprung from his frustration at – but, Sherlock shook his head, no, he could not allow himself to be side-tracked again.) 

Challa did blush, her cheeks burning with sudden shame. ‘Well… Flint isn’t exactly part of my official work at the moment, and I didn’t report her as “found property” this morning before I brought her here. I can’t keep her, I know, once we – well you – find Mr. Baker – and so I just… I thought it would raise too many questions. And it’s not as though I intend to keep the carbuncle either,’ she added, her eyes falling a little dazedly on the stone again. ‘And, really, as you’re the ones who’re tracking Baker, I imagine –’

‘Will everyone stop fixating on the petty reward!’ he snapped. There was enough confusion about ownership and exchange in this mess without adding more interests from the people professing to be disinterested! ‘I do not intend, nor do I believe you wish, Sergeant, to plunder from the aristocracy in order to keep prizes for ourselves. Our part in this business is to determine _how_ Lady Morcar’s missing jewel came to be in the bowels of a parrot several miles away across London, and to ensure that no blameless party is held responsible for the disappearance. That’s _all_!’ 

He stopped, silent. His gaze snagged momentarily on John, who was rubbing his hands along his thighs in a completely distracting manner, before he got up and moved to the kitchen and took down three mugs. (Sherlock couldn’t _drink_ now – to think of the impractical and embarrassing eventuality of needing to relieve his bladder halfway through trailing the suspect!)

Sherlock wished, for an instant, that Sgt. Challa would simply leave the matter (quite literally) in his hands, so that he could go back to finding a way to solve the challenge of connecting the two cases while reserving enough brainspace to catalogue every cell of John Watson’s skin as it come into contact with his. 

But, now that they had the carbuncle, things seemed illuminated by a chink of hope. John had been about to kiss him again; they had rediscovered the scent of the thief and recovered the item, which meant another (so far nominal, but surely presently complete) success in his professional history and before long the triumphant release of the innocent John Horner back to his boring, lumbering life; Sgt. Challa, for her appalling timing, was established as a new ally; and everything would be _fine_ so long as he could keep John Watson believing that he was worth kissing _again_.

Turning to John, he felt the familiar rush of the pursuit of an interesting case suffusing through his system, interlaced with the inextinguishable hormone response to John’s battle-ready glint of camaraderie.

‘We need to find Henry Baker.’

* * *

Walking back into the flat over an hour later, Sherlock felt a renewed sense of justification in his hatred of most members of his species. London streets at any time of day in July were heaving with people, and today was no different (though, despite the drop in air pressure, it had not yet begun to rain). Sherlock remained largely silent as he and Sgt. Challa retraced her steps, during which she had prattled rather long-windedly about her love of birds and inability to afford a CAG parrot before now. (His mind was obstinately fixated elsewhere, as he imagined John’s Luddite struggles against the ‘lost and found’ internet forums and email/phone conversations he was currently making in their endeavour to contact Baker.)

His absent-mindedness had been fully interrupted by the argumentative salesclerk at the Alpha Exotic Pets emporium, who had required a great deal of flattery, persuasion, and finally wagering before he agreed to give Sherlock what he needed. Thus he returned to a hideously overcrowded Goodge Street, arms inconveniently full, before he eventually managed to secure a cab and shut out the tedious masses and redirect himself homeward.

The clatter of his footsteps, the shuffle of wings beating against the cage, avian clicks, and the _smaaack_ of plastic food bags adhering to each other, earned a groan from the living room even before he had reached the door.

‘For fuck’s sake, Sherlock,’ John grumbled, looking up from his laptop with resignation rather than fury. ‘We cannot keep –’

‘Ovid isn’t for us, John, he is for Henry Baker.’ Sherlock set the new cage down on the partner’s desk, and unveiled the second parrot of the day to its temporary residence. He let drop the training treats and other various items he had impulsively bought in order to make the sale and get back to the flat with some shred of his sanity.

‘Oh, Ovid this time is it? Planning on giving him a scroll and asking him to write a new _Odyssey_?’

‘Homer was the author of –’

‘No, no, no, that’s not going to work, don’t split hairs,’ John began, shaking his head and climbing out from under his computer. He rose, and Sherlock rocked backward with the momentary impression that John was going to kiss him – but, Sherlock found with a recoil of his stomach, instead he simply went to inspect more closely their latest interlocutor. Then he looked at Sherlock, a victorious smile poorly concealed on his face. (Of course, Sherlock could tell from the angle of John’s eyebrows and the number of wrinkles on his forehead whether John was pleased about an achievement, but didn’t think it was relevant to bring this up. And in any event, the more opportunities to study the contortions of John’s mouth, the better.)

‘You’ve found Henry Baker?’ he confirmed, a little triumphant himself.

‘Emailed him just before you, er, _two_ , got in.’ John grinned. ‘Says he’ll he round at half-six to collect his bird.’

Excellent. Everything finally according to plan. 

‘Then we have’ – he checked his watch – ‘roughly ninety minutes to teach this parrot the classical languages. Sit down.’

For a moment, John merely blinked at him, a stubbornness colouring his surprise. ‘What.’

‘What,’ repeated Ovid, in a near-perfect mimic of John’s voice.

Sherlock sat in his usual wooden chair. ‘We need to ascertain if Henry Baker is involved in the theft of the carbuncle.’

‘And teaching a parrot to ask where the Acropolis is is the way to do that, yeah?’

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock pushed the unoccupied desk chair out so that they were next to each other at the corner of the table, then took the inquisitive-eyed bird gently from his cage, allowing him to step timidly up his arm. Sherlock waited. After a moment, John – in a well-practised move – uncrossed his arms, sighed, and sank into his chair. (His knee was perilously close to Sherlock’s knee, but, Sherlock swallowed, his pride at having contributed to the case was no doubt affecting his haptic awareness.)

‘If Henry Baker really did purchase a parrot’ (‘Pretty parrot, yes you are,’ said Ovid, and Sherlock stroked his ear-tufts to quieten him.) ‘for the sole purpose of entering the good books of his recently-distant ornithologist wife, he will require a bird that can repeat the phrases which – according to Mr. Breckinridge – were taught to Flint’ (‘Flint! Linus! Soup’s on!’) ‘before she was acquired. If, on the other hand, Henry Baker is involved in the burglary, he will use any excuse to avoid taking this bird home once it becomes clear that Ovid has not ingested anything of any human value.’ He examined Ovid for a moment. ‘So far as I know.’

Smirking, John drummed his fingers once on the table. ‘Where’s my x-ray when I need it.’

‘Are you being served?’ Ovid recited primly, no doubt from a previous customer in the shop.

‘My research has shown that parrots are best trained through use of two speakers, one of whom the parrot will mimic in an attempt to converse with the former.’ Obviously, the bird would want to talk to him, having already identified him as friendly, therefore John would need to say the relevant phrases.

He stood carefully (Ovid mimed a slide-whistle), took down three separate volumes from the upper-right of his haphazard-seeming (but of course meticulously organised) bookshelf, and handed them to John. As he ripped, one-handed, into the seeds he intended to use as rewards, and grabbed a handful to put on the table, John made a noise of derision. ‘You’re serious? Greek and Latin, and French?’

‘And German, but you remember enough not to need the transliteration in front of you.’ 

This was perfectly true – John, though awkward in terms of fluency, had a fairly passable memory from his school-age German classes. 

Then, reaching the most uncomfortable part of the plan, he sat down. ‘Once we can encourage him to parrot, as it were, your words, you’ll have to teach the actually relevant phrases. The, erm… endearments, that I suspect Flint was taught expressly for _Mrs._ Baker.’ He took a few seeds in his unoccupied right hand, trying not to look at John and grateful, not for the first time in his life, that he was not prone to blushing. ‘But I imagine you can cover that. First, Baker’s most important word: _Papagena_.’

A strange, pensive look was dappled across John’s face, so Sherlock checked again that they had Ovid’s attention. One long moment later, John, inhaling as if to prepare himself to dive into a frozen pool, repeated, ‘Papagena.’

Ovid cheeped.

‘You have to encourage him.’

‘Oh give over,’ John snapped, and – right on cue – Ovid grumbled, ‘give over!’

‘Good bird,’ Sherlock praised magisterially, and fed him a treat.

‘Thank you,’ replied Ovid through his snack.

John groaned again.

Taking up a pen, Sherlock scripted a phrase he expected Henry Baker would welcome, and handed it to John. He watched John’s dark eyes read the sentence, then lift to peer accusingly at him. ‘Really.’

‘Ovid.’ Sherlock then whistled the familiar instrumental call, before cuing John was a look. 

‘ _Vogel-Dame_ ,’ John announced blandly, then, when the parrot’s sole reaction was to raise his foot as if in a clownish handshake, John gritted his teeth, then said, with a false brightness, ‘Ovid! Vogel. Dame. Come on, work with me.’

‘ _Gogoldum_ ,’ Ovid suggested, head slanted in confusion. Tone, as much as content, clearly aided the bird’s comprehension, but Sherlock simply could not instruct John on his tone without entering a conversation he was not prepared to have. He allowed John to continue.

Ever a competitor, John faced himself squarely with the parrot balancing on the crook of Sherlock’s elbow, and intoned with deliberate purpose, ‘ _Scheiss_.’

‘ _Scheiss_ ,’ croaked the bird.

John smirked gleefully.

This was not going to win over Henry Baker, nor was it a remotely appropriate way for an intelligent species to be treated. ‘John, honestly –’

‘ _Sherlock ist ein Scheiss_ ,’ John prompted, and Ovid bobbed, nodding, ‘ _Sherlock Schiess_. Good parrot?’

‘Very good parrot,’ approved John, giving him several seeds at once. ‘Ovid here seems to agree with me that the textbook lesson is a bit dry.’

Well if John was going to behave like a child then Sherlock was more than adept at such tactics. Mycroft was his brother after all. 

‘ _John est un con_ ,’ Sherlock sang, with as much lyricism as he could, to the parrot, who did indeed appreciate the cadence of the human voice as part of its communicative power, recited his sentence properly on the first try.

‘Right,’ said John, grinning broadly and flipping open a dictionary. ‘Let’s teach this bird some Greek.’

For the better part of the next hour, John attempted to teach their parrot every tasteless proverb under the antique and modern sun. Sherlock was thoroughly glad that they were committed to giving Ovid away, now that John had corrupted his mind; he would never have allowed their parrot to learn such absurdities.

Increasingly, however, he found himself watching John’s face, hearing the unique vocal tics of John’s voice exaggerated and warped by the parrot’s eager repetition. Rather than comforted by John’s commitment to their frankly unimportant task (as he was nearly positive that Henry Baker was not involved anyway), Sherlock felt oddly discomfited, strangely voyeuristic. Even if, as per his original plan, he could have coached John through various amorous declarations in foreign languages, still they would not been able to talk to each other about anything of significance. Moreover, Sherlock was struggling (even more than he had anticipated) not to confuse the words John was speaking as John’s own. ‘ _Militat omnis amans_ ,’ John declared several times, enjoying the reference, and Sherlock both craved and agonised at his having to belabour the phrase before Ovid (ironically) could grasp it. 

At just before the appointed time, Sherlock, stomach coiling in hot distracting undulations, put Ovid back in his cage. ‘We should at least teach him one of the original phrases.’

‘How do you mean? Something Flint said?’ John’s tone was amused – he had, in spite of his early protests, rather taken to teaching. (This was not surprising: John was a nature leader and fixer, and took particular satisfaction in seeing the direct impact of his efforts. Hence why Sherlock had agreed to eat the bread roll at lunch.)

But Sherlock couldn’t look at John. The situation, which had started as first perfunctory and then jovial, had become entirely fraught with an all-too transparent parade of his own failings. He had been wanting to capture John’s mouth, with its absurd London born-and-bred accent tumbling out, all evening, and yet all he had succeeded in doing was teaching _a parrot_ to say the one thing he was fairly certain he could never articulate to the single person to whom he should honestly confess it. This is how he lived – he toyed with academic anomalies and traced suspects all over London and sat in his flat all day longing viscerally to touch a man who had been sitting, for the majority of their waking hours, less than two feet away. 

It was too much – _he_ was too much. There were too many obstacles, even when there was nothing and no one in between them. Sherlock brought home severed heads and noisy tropical birds and his own black moods when his trains of thought screeched and careered out of control. John didn’t want a parrot, any more than he wanted the severed head, or the melancholy – it was part of the evidence of Sherlock’s messes. Sherlock vividly remembered the malty scent of John’s sweat beneath his arms and the soft-wiry fuzz of his pubic hair, John’s smile fading from his face against his pillow in the darkness as Sherlock watched him fall asleep… but he was adrift attempting to gauge if and how much John wanted more from him. 

John had attempted to kiss him earlier, which had been euphoric and positive, but Sherlock couldn’t work properly to secure John Horner’s liberty and catch James Ryder while imagining, with leaping, nauseated thoughts, how painful it would be when John told him he was too much.

He cleared his throat and steeled himself. ‘Flint was fluent with the phrase, “I love you, Papagena”, which I imagine was part of Baker’s personal request.’ He felt John’s eyes on him and hoped that he didn’t seem as childish as he sounded to himself. Even with the desperation of his bone-deep _need_ for John, he managed not to stumble over the words a second time. ‘Can you say, “I love you, Papagena”?’

‘I love you, Papagena,’ Ovid crooned merrily. Sherlock felt vaguely ill and strode rapidly into the kitchen.

‘Never let it be said that Sherlock Holmes never told a bird he loved her,’ John commented faintly, from behind him.

Before he could stop himself, Sherlock said, though it mattered to no one at all, ‘Ovid is male, John.’

At that moment, the doorbell rang.

 

…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, my mistakes are mine. Do let me know if you find one -- I'd much prefer to fix them than not know.
> 
> Also, amusingly, there was a comic going around tumblr this week, featuring (of all things!) an African Grey parrot as Sherlock and John's pet: [comic here](http://gimmesherlock.tumblr.com/post/62017621974/for-the-lets-draw-sherlock-221b-gets-a-pet), by gimmesherlock. (Not at all connected to me but funny nevertheless.)
> 
> 'Militat omnis amans' is the beginning of the actual Ovid's elegaic couplet, [_Love is War_](http://en.wikisource.org/wiki/Amores_1.9), which begins, _Every lover is a soldier._ And once again, that damn Mozart.
> 
> I'm also brainstorming and writing (in a roundabout way) for Pt. 3 of this series, but as this still has a few updates left, I have some time...
> 
> Thanks! x


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'By the time he eventually reached the Cosmopolitan, he was almost glad Sherlock wasn’t to hand either for him to clock or to snog. Fortunately he had a meeting with a supermodel so he didn’t have to decide just now.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A shortist chapter because John isn't as verbose as Sherlock. Attempts at sentiment and humour. Apologies.

Chapter 5 

 

John was pretty sure he was in love with Sherlock, which seemed a shame as Sherlock was apparently trying to kill him.

He was, he estimated, about 99% sure he had now crossed the line from just interested/turned on by Sherlock to actually _insane_ , with that fractional margin reserved for the moment when he succeeded in saying it out loud to Sherlock’s face and thus caused it to be completely, whole-heartedly true. 

The man was an idiot, that was also true. Sherlock had bought a second parrot simply because he thought Henry Baker couldn’t afford a _second_ one (which of course made John curious as to just how much chatty birds were going for these days – what happened to good, old-fashioned budgies?). Sherlock had then enlisted John’s help in the frankly transparent task of ‘teaching the parrot Greek’ and a smattering of other languages to help Baker get back in his wife’s good books; this was, of course, entirely a ploy to see how much he could make John say. (John was about 80% that this had been the actual goal – but Sherlock was both juvenile and naïve enough to do something so sentimental unconsciously.)

But Sherlock also had become sad in their amusing session with the bird, and John was convinced Sherlock had started overthinking the whole thing, as he was always wont to do, particularly when things touched him personally.

Of course, considering the truly unbelievable day they were having, this was when Henry Baker had arrived to claim his now ancient-potty-mouthed bird.

Pivoting into the room like a man whose knees were splinted into leg-length plaster casts, Baker regarded them both sheepishly. His wig-like ginger-blond hair was untidy in every direction, while his well-worn jacket sleeves were dappled with mends and almost transparent threadbare patches. He was about six foot tall but seemed, with his elbows and nose and feet and ears all protruding knobbily, at least eight, like a Punch puppet on stilts. He seemed as surprised to be standing in their living room as John wasn’t to remember he had run from someone as unintimidating as Sgt. Challa. 

‘Dr….’ Baker considered them both, then settled correctly on John, ‘Watson, I must thank you for contacting me. I can only imagine the trouble you put yourselves to.’

John took the young man’s large pink hand, which shook his entire muppet-like arm with ridiculous ease. Baker’s entire appearance was more of a Wallace and Gromit figure than an Oxford prof, but, John supposed, the two were not mutually exclusive.

‘No more than usual,’ John told him honestly. ‘Never a dull moment round here.’

Baker’s whole forehead wrinkled and deep cheek lines appeared triangularly around his wide, stern mouth, as he studied John’s face for humour. ‘I… I expect so.’

Sherlock piped up, though he retained his theatrical poise in his armchair. ‘Mr. Baker, as I’m sure John told you, we were unfortunate enough as to acquire and then send on your first bird to another home. But I hope this parrot – whom we have called Ovid, though of course, you are entitled to address him however you like – will be satisfactory? He knows most of the same phrases and seems, from our brief acquaintance, a quick study.’

Jargon aside, Sherlock’s little speech went smoothly, and John thought _he_ could not have guessed that the first bird had been the moving home of a multi-million pound gemstone before being ‘sent on’ to a quirky young Yard sergeant. 

Baker’s face was creased with shock and almost comical disappointment, and John intervened, hoping to force him to come down, on one side or the other. ‘I think Sherlock said you bought this bird for your wife, Mr. Baker?’

Again, Baker’s agile face transformed, this time lifting into a boyish smile. ‘My wife, is – ’ But he stopped, and looked more carefully at Sherlock. Ah – so he was just putting _that_ together. ‘Sherlock Hol – _and Dr. Watson_ , I see! I do beg your pardon!’ He stuck out his hand again, and shook first John’s and then Sherlock’s heartily. ‘I was entirely distracted in the chaos of my ordeal, I hardly thought of your being involved!’ (Talked like an academic though.) ‘You are quite right, my wife is Dr. Susan Baker. She specialises in avian intelligence projects, you know, and she has recently been considering investing in a parrot for a long-term project in human-bird communication. Ovid, yes, I see! Hello Ovid!’

‘Hello! Hello!’ Ovid replied cordially, bobbing up and down and shuffling along his wooden perch. ‘I love you.’

John ignored the hollow pang in his gut at this simple sentence and plastered his smile on his face. ‘He speaks some French, Latin, Greek, and, er, German as well.’ (He hoped his slight hiccup of laughter on that last feat wasn’t too obviously a joke.)

‘Does he! What a clever parrot you are, my friend.’ Then Baker whistled – and John nearly jumped out of his chair – the same four-note bird call-esque trill that Sherlock and Flint had been playing (and singing) earlier.

‘He knows the name you requested, if you prompt him,’ Sherlock informed Baker, with a small, almost imperceptible smile. 

‘Pa-pa-pa-’

‘Papagena! Papagena!’ crowed Ovid.

John felt completely lost but Baker, the innocent nutter, looked thrilled. ‘My wife will be intensely pleased! My deepest thanks for retrieving the parrot from the shop. Mr. Windigate, the usual proprietor who arranges such things, left last night just after I stopped in to acquire the first pet, before he left for his tour of – all places – Salzburg, and after spending £700 on one bird–’

‘WHAT!’ John cried. No fucking wonder Sherlock hadn’t let him come to the sodding Alpha rip-off shop, paying more than John’s first car had cost for a single, admittedly now multilingual, _parrot!_

‘Exactly my problem!’ Baker confirmed. (Sherlock, the utter _clot_ , was feigning a royal silence which John was going to well and truly end once Baker saw himself out.) ‘I have been unemployed for over a year, apart from my frequent gratis lectures at the Ashmoleon. But… now, I must thank you for the bird, and –’

‘Were you interested in the cage and effects of the first bird, Mr. Baker?’

He blinked bovinely at them. ‘The effects? No, except as proof of my strange, rather sodden tale. But with my new friend Ovid here, I think I can let the past remain in the past. And now, I believe, I shall take my leave of you, and surprise Susan with a bottle of wine and our new family member. _Bibamus, moriendum est_.’ He smiled shakily at them both. 

‘Then, if you wouldn’t mind signing a note to that effect – clients can be inconveniently litigious when it comes to lost property.’ 

‘Of course,’ Baker agreed solemnly, as though asked to sign legally-binding agreements about the ownership of bird poop was pretty ordinary business. He skimmed the paper and scribbled his signature.

Sherlock pocketed the note. ‘And, out of curiosity, might I ask…’ (John recognised Sherlock’s Columbo voice and knew he had arrived at the last burning question which could connect Ryder to the carbuncle’s reappearance.) ‘Do you have any idea where the birds came from, before Mr. Windigate’s shop sold them on to you?’

‘I do, as a matter of fact. One of the women in our Bird Club – that is, Susan’s bird research pool – a Mrs. Oakshott, raises them and then sells them through licensed pet-store owners. I believe she lives on Brixton Street, or somewhere in that vicinity.’ 

‘Thank you, Mr. Baker. You have been _extremely_ helpful.’

‘See you later!’ Ovid chimed, and Baker, starting with shock (if the man made it home with his bird, his wallet, and his head on straight, John would be _stunned_ ) and clutching the wire tightly, draped the cloth over it. He then toasted them with the cage (which sent Ovid squawking and springing excitedly), and clumsily left without another word.

As the door to the street opened and shut downstairs, John breathed, ‘Seven _hundred_ pounds, Sherlock…’

‘We also have a precious stone worth several million pounds in this room, John. Let’s not shout too much about recent transactions or Mrs. Hudson will feel compelled raise our rent.’ Sherlock got up and made for his coat, cool detective persona falling away as his eager scavenger hunt side took over. ‘Talking of which, I need you to go back to the Cosmopolitan –’

‘Me!’ John glowered at him. Surely nothing needed doing for at least _ten minutes_ , ten sodding minutes in which they could actually make something of this unbelievably long day and just kiss _for god’s sake_ , instead of _talking_ all the time! ‘What, d’you think someone’s going to steal the Carbuncle again out of our living room desk?’

Sherlock had pulled his arms through his sleeves and was gathering his keys. John felt suddenly furious. It was one bad joke after another. Never mind getting a leg over, Sherlock clearly was trying to prevent their ever being alone in the same room together. The same clutch of fear John had felt last night when Peterson had interrupted them, a shivering premonition that if they didn’t get back to John’s bed soon, they would forget how, washed over him again. 

Frowning at him, Sherlock insisted, ‘I need you to take the Carbuncle back to Lady Morcar and convince her to drop all the charges, but not until _after_ I’ve tracked down Ryder. I am going to talk to Mrs. Oakshott–’

‘No, Sherlock, we – we need to talk about this, now, here,’ he gestured in a stirring circle between them. His lungs felt hot and sore and he knew he was opening floodgates, becoming sentimental when Sherlock had told himself in his stupid frightened head that emotions were simply baggage. Still he couldn’t stop. ‘Even if he stole it, Ryder doesn’t have the Carbuncle anymore! All the rest is details!’

‘John Horner is still in prison, Ryder is on the loose, and somehow _we_ have the Carbuncle.’ (His eyes had gone icy, piercing John through with how loudly they seemed to be saying, ‘The work, before you; always _the work_.’) ‘It doesn’t make _sense_.’

‘SO WHAT!’ John shouted.

His words rang for a second between them, lingering in the air like an accusation he hadn’t meant at all. 

‘Take a taxi to the hotel. It looks like rain and I doubt Lady Morcar would appreciate you dripping on her carpet.’ 

Then, without looking back, Sherlock walked out.

* * *

_Stubborn, arrogant, repressed, selfish, idiotic, crazed, abnormal, ARSE_ , John chanted to himself with every huff of breath, his feet pounding the pavement. _Ridiculous, typical, mindboggling, **dick**_.

The entirety of his walk to the Hotel Cosmopolitan – he categorically dismissed the idea of a taxi, daring it to tip down on him today, of all fucking days of his life – he strung together a collection of nouns, adjectives, and even verbs ( _run away, deny, obsess_ ) that would, he imagined, crystallise into a perfect paragraph of abuse he could hurl at Sherlock the moment they were both back at Baker Street. Several times he grunted furiously as he remembered the really spectacular _twat_ Sherlock had been, gaining disgruntled looks from fellow pedestrians. After getting his hunched bad shoulder shoved for a third, teeth-rattling time, John stopped and looked up properly for the first time since leaving the flat. The rapidly darkening street was jam-packed with blokes in nice shoes and lightweight macs and heavily-made up women in short sequined dresses and polka-dotted brollies. It was, he realised with bitter hilarity, somehow _still Friday_.

He marched the length of Baker Street as it changed names and cut jagged angles around old buildings, walked past locked up boutiques and clamorous restaurants full of diners, then turned with a resentful sigh onto Oxford Street, hating every godforsaken tourist and drunken City lad he had to weave through, but Sherlock most of all.

Was it really going to go this way? John knew he’d gone further than he meant, in suggesting the case wasn’t important – of course it was. Horner was pretty clearly innocent, if proved no better than the compact, heavy bulge in the inner lining of John’s black leather jacket. More importantly, the cases in general were important: vulnerable people who mistrusted the police, or who simply appreciated (particularly after the disgusting, shattering fallout after Moriarty) that Sherlock was without question a _genius_. And he _knew_ , in his blood and marrow, even though he sometimes forgot it, that he got to be the person he wanted to be when he stood next to Sherlock and helped those people.

But still, he thought as he paced through a sickeningly posh part of town, he needed something else. Something he got from the shadowy look in Sherlock’s eyes just before either of them turned in for the night, when he knew he didn’t know what the next day would bring, except that it would unquestionably involve the two of them.

By the time he eventually reached the Cosmopolitan, he was almost glad Sherlock wasn’t to hand either for him to clock or to snog. Fortunately he had a meeting with a supermodel so he didn’t have to decide just now.

Lady Morcar (once the elitist front desk manager finally believed him and rang, in her most brownnosing tone, up to the Countess’s suite) was slightly, gracefully surprised to see him.

In pearls, a no doubt cashmere vermilion cardigan (the same vivid red shade, he couldn’t help thinking, of Flint and Ovid’s tails), and plain black trousers, the Countess was as stunning in dinner-for-one attire as in her entertaining clothes of the afternoon. ‘Dr. Watson. Some news, I take it?’ She eyed him curiously.

He sat across from her on the camel leather sofa and, with as little ceremony as possible, dug from his pocket the jewel worth more than he could ever hope to make. He placed it anticlimactically on the cherry wood coffee table between them.

‘Sorry I didn’t have it gift-wrapped,’ he added. ‘Feel free to deduct that on your expenses claim.’

Soundlessly, Lady Morcar nevertheless emanated an air of complete shock. After a moment she took the Blue Carbuncle into her palm, probably testing its weight or smoothness or possibly just making sure it was not a mirage.

After a minute or two, she murmured, awed, ‘You are two remarkable gentlemen.’

John had nothing interesting to reply so didn’t.

Clutching the gemstone tightly to her chest, the Countess stood momentarily and went to the sideboard below the window. Illuminated by the evening glow, she unlocked a drawer, placed the gemstone carefully inside, then secured it again, before returning to sit opposite him once more.

‘I’m hardly Houdini, Lady Morcar, but I’m fairly sure even I could pick a drawer with no lock.’

She smiled in genuine amusement. ‘I thoroughly appreciate your advice, Doctor. Lord Morcar and I have been discussing our security arrangements and have already made plans for improvements. I apologise that I thought an update could wait until morning. It seems I underestimated you.’

Ears ringing with Sherlock’s indignation, John replied, ‘It’s John Horner we should be apologising to. Well, not _you_. The police, and possibly Ms. Cusack.’ He hesitated. ‘Sherlock hoped you might be able to wait, before you told Inspector Bradstreet and called it all off. At least while Sherlock follows up the last few…’ (parrots, he thought unhelpfully) ‘leads.’

‘If you wish it, I shall do so,’ she conceded diplomatically. ‘And of course,’ she turned and picked a sealed envelope off the side-table to her left, ‘my gratitude has more direct implications for yourselves.’

He took the envelope and pocketed it wordlessly, then stood, fighting the surreal, ingrained urge to bow. Lady Morcar rose too, and followed him to the door.

‘You make an excellent team, Dr. Watson, if I may be so… _indiscreet_.’ 

Frowning slightly, he said, ‘When we try.’ 

She crossed her arms and looked him over, appraising. ‘My husband made a similar remark to me, the day before our wedding. I’m not an overly romantic person by nature, but… I was afraid, really, that people would talk – a fashion model, marrying into a title, and all that. “Is it the gossip you’re worried about?” he asked me. “I’m only afraid I’ll miss the chance to spend my life with you.”’ She smiled. ‘Of course, later I discovered he had shamelessly stolen that line from a book, but by then I’d married him.’

The lightness John felt at Lady Morcar’s shrug burst forth as he laughed himself into the corridor, made his way to the street, and – as the first few light drops of rain tapped the back of his neck – stepped into a cab. The feeling only intensified slightly when he opened a beautifully signed cheque for £15,000.

 

….

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yes, Allusions City again:
> 
> 1\. Virginia Woolf described one of her periods of depression and insanity as feeling like she could hear the birds singing in Greek. (She then wrote this into Septimus's PTSD in _Mrs Dalloway_.)
> 
> 2\. That last quotation which the Earl of Morcar told Lady Ayenat is SHAMEFULLY lifted from George Eliot's _Daniel Deronda_ , from the Catherine/Klesmer relationship which takes about [two chapters](http://en.wikisource.org/wiki/Daniel_Deronda/Chapter_22) and totally steals the show.
> 
> 3\. Henry Baker (for whom I have a [preferred](http://spookybyronsbloomers.tumblr.com/post/56511384380) [actor](http://spookybyronsbloomers.tumblr.com/post/62566364409) in mind) quoted Seneca, _Bibamus, moriendum est_ meaning essentially, 'Let us drink, for we must die'.
> 
> There are others but I'll stop now. More chapters on the way!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A storm breaks, a case is solved, but what difference does it make?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock constantly forces me to invent new words, or reanimate old ones.

Chapter 6

 

‘Sher–’

John’s expression wavered between argumentative and cautious curiosity, as Ryder preceded Sherlock into the living room. (He had successfully delivered the gem; he was neither as irate as when they had parted nor wholly repentant; he considered (his eyes swept Ryder, the room, and then at last Sherlock [whose stomach clenched, while a raindrop from the curls at the back of his neck slid shiveringly down below his collar]) all possible outcomes of this sudden rendez-vous, his shoulders tensing in protective anticipation.)

‘Er,’ Ryder enlightened them usefully. Sherlock rolled his eyes and stepped around the imbecile. Ryder’s now twice-drenched sleeves were dripping into their carpet. ‘Right, so – I’ll just – just take that address for the bird off you and, erm, be on my way.’

Again John looked to Sherlock, expression clouded with dark confusion: he wanted an explanation. Sherlock didn’t have one, yet.

‘Charles Ryder,’ Sherlock announced with mock-cordiality.

‘James,’ muttered the man, rightly sensing that he was out of his depth. 

‘Of course. As it happens, John, Mr. Ryder, came for some information. About our feathered friend – except, in fact, _Mr._ Ryder, the bird did come here, before it went on to a new home. In the company of a police sergeant from New Scotland Yard.’

Immediate tightness of the jaw; rapid blinking; jump in heart-rate. ‘Wha… oh, well…’ He laughed nervously; a bead of rainwater dangled on his ruddy, chafed nose. ‘I thought you said –’

‘It’s no use, Ryder. We know everything.’

The unfortunate man blanched and wobbled – John noticed too, ‘ _Hey_ – careful!’ – but of course John knew what to do, grabbed Ryder before his knees hit the floor and managed to lift the apparently invertebrate man entirely undignifiedly into Sherlock’s chair. The rattle and _smack_ of Ryder’s throat and gummy mouth as he struggled to keep his head up, ‘I’m all right, I’m fine, I…’, was almost obscene. John moved with ingrained promptness and retrieved a glass of water. Sherlock grimaced, but otherwise remained immarbled.

‘There is very little you need to explain in order for me to piece it together,’ Sherlock went on, uncomfortably attempting to fill the hush of the room apart from Ryder’s shaky, slightly hyperventilated breathing. (Perhaps he rather than Mrs. Hudson was in the early stages of _rhinopharyngitis_.) ‘How did you know the Carbuncle was so poorly secured?’

Miserable grey eyes looked up at him from Ryder’s greasy fringe (the man had apparently neither slept nor washed since the affair had begun only the soggy day previous). ‘C-Cathy – Catherine Cusack,’ he stammered. 

_Ah._ Sherlock’s mind zinged like the scrape of metal pins as the perfectly fitted facts slotted themselves into place: two years, Ayenat Braithwaite had said; Catherine Cusack, glamorous but attainable, flirtatious but clearly (to the objective observer) indifferent to his attentions; savings wasted on attempts at a private online business (failed), new wardrobe, and demonstrative gifts, all entirely unnoticed; delusional heist fantasy born of too many late night action film screenings, and a poor schoolboy’s idolatry of Robin Hood; and, judging from Sherlock’s last visit, a sense that, when his sister inevitably died within the next six months, he would have no family, no skills, and nothing left to lose.

‘You could have spared yourself this absurd and, obviously, reckless ordeal – Cusack would have kept the jewel and continued to ignore your interest, even if you had _miraculously_ managed to keep the theft secret, which seems entirely beyond your capability.’ 

Ryder bowed his head into his smooth, chubby, childish hands, and began to cry in earnest. ‘I’m _sorry_. I got so _confused_ , I didn’t mean…’ He choked slightly. ‘It was all a mistake, and then suddenly I was holding it and I hardly even knew how I’d got it!’ Effluvia were pouring from every facial orifice except his ears, turning him into a soppy, snotty mess. Sherlock’s insides wrenched with the desire to tidy him up, physically if not mentally, and get him _dry_ and out of their living room. Still, the man’s lapse into blubbering would not excuse him entirely.

(John was standing, silent, only a few hands’ breadths away, but Sherlock felt strangely isolated, as though a current of cold, stiff air was circling around himself, separating him from the warm, vibrant passion play going on at an imponderable distance. He could barely discern John’s measured inhale/exhalations from the criminal’s between them. Some dislocated part of Sherlock’s chest ached for no reason he could accurately describe.) 

‘And yet you were not so “confused” as to fail to wreck the hotel room and frame John Horner for a crime you committed.’

‘I didn’t even know he was there! I thought he’d left!’ Ryder pleaded. ‘Honest to God, sir, I never thought they’d blame him–’

Sherlock scoffed. ‘While you made off with a 17 _million pound jewel_ , and you expected the police to simply throw up their hands in despair? Even I don’t believe the Yard are that witless.’

‘I went to my sister’s house, right after, to, to _think_ – I knew someone would eventually want to talk to me and I just – I remembered a friend telling me –’

‘Friend with a drugs trafficking conviction, was he?’ Sherlock pressed. He was pushing too hard – he could tell already that, pathetic as he was, Ryder was no crooked mastermind; had no criminal record (or he would hardly have been hired at the hotel in the first place); and, worst of all, had allowed sentiment to blind him, to overtake his reason and lead him, like every other idiot on the planet, to do something catastrophically _stupid_ , which only ended up hurting other people and himself. ‘What did you do with the parrot?’

Ryder blinked, bewildered, and Sherlock felt a burst of fury. ‘The par–’

‘The _PARROT!_ The parrot you mistakenly thought was the one you had forced to ingest the carbuncle, before you realised your sister had taken that bird to be sold to another owner, along with the jewel? What _happened_ to that parrot?’

‘I-it’s at my house! I – I gave it a laxative, to see what came out of it, and I even put a metal detector to it,’ (a metal detector, _franchement!_ ) ‘but I realised almost as soon as I got back to my flat that it wasn’t the same one! I was gonna bring him back to my sister but I didn’t get the chance! Please, sir, you _have to believe me!_ I’ll quit my job – I’ll get out of town – there won’t be a case without my part of it, I know, and then that bloke Corner–’

‘Horner,’ corrected John, expressionlessly.

‘Horner, he’ll get out! I’ll do whatever you want! Just, _help me_ … My sister, she – help me, god, please!’ He buried his face in his hands again and sobbed, shuddering and loud. The pitiful sound grated on Sherlock’s skin, crawling along his upper spine and lower ribs and forehead.

After a moment, he turned his back on them and looked at the kitchen. Everything was in its usual place, shadowy in the evening light, teamugs overturned on the drying rack from when Mrs. Hudson had stopped by earlier, with her deepening respiratory cough, her arthritic hands patting John’s blunt hands. He could feel John’s eyes on his neck, and wanted, for the first time in many weeks (years), to be _anywhere_ else.

‘Get out.’

Ryder’s snuffled breath because more audible as he lifted his head, jacket rustling against Sherlock’s leather chair. ‘Wha–’

‘No more words,’ Sherlock murmured, without moving. ‘Get out.’

With a shuffle of shoes on the carpet, Ryder stood, then, apparently deciding John wasn’t about to throttle him or throw him to the floor, practically ran out the door and was swallowed up by the rain.

Sherlock counted John’s breaths in the near-silence – the average number, it seemed, though each one felt like it was subtracting from a finite number Sherlock was allowed to overhear. Involuntarily his hand gripped nothing, and he shut his eyes.

‘Well,’ John finally said, voice unreadable and closed off. ‘I’m… a little surprised.’

‘I DON’T WORK FOR THE POLICE!’ Sherlock heard himself shout, voice reverberating on the glass and porcelain and tile of the kitchen, _their_ kitchen, their plates, their chairs, their hands, their hours, their work, their flat, _their bed_. ‘I don’t have to follow their rules! You said it – it’s all just details! Lady Morcar has her stone back, Horner will be released, Nora Oakshott will _die_ , and James Ryder will disappear into the great tide of nobodies in Glasgow or Southend and _it won’t matter!_ ’

His nostrils flared as he attempted to gather enough air into his stinging lungs without the humiliation of gasping like a drowned rat in his own living room. Too much –

A second later he felt himself pushed steadily backward, shoving the uneven dividing board of the threshold almost painfully into his back, and he nearly drove the hands away, except they were John’s hands, and he was kissing him, and Sherlock couldn’t arrange his thoughts into anything more coherent than, _John_.

John’s mouth was pressing into his from the side, lips surrounding his while John’s tongue glanced hotly across his; John’s left hand was holding firmly the clammy skin at the back of his neck, while John’s other hand was placed agonisingly lightly beneath his jaw; John’s knees were bumping his knees, ankles brushing his ankles as John pressed himself into Sherlock, heavily, deliberately…

‘God, you’re unbelievable,’ John rasped, coming up for air, which cut jaggedly into Sherlock’s breathing because he knew that, he _knew_ it, but he didn’t know how not to be. 

Sherlock tried to kiss him, to smother the words on John’s tongue by swallowing them whole so he wouldn’t be able to find them again, but John was kissing his jaw, his earlobe, and Sherlock whined and choked down a pocket of air and fisted his hand in John’s shirt so hard his fingers cramped.

‘You have no idea how amazing you are,’ John breathed into his ear, pulling aside his suddenly unbuttoned shirt to mouth at the same spot on his neck as before, and Sherlock opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling for lack of knowing what else to do. ‘I’m sorry, about – earlier.’

 _‘You’re_ sorry,’ Sherlock half-laughed, throat feeling like he had swallowed a mug of too-hot coffee in one gulp. ‘You cannot be thinking clearly, John, this is hardly an occasion which merits _you_ apologising.’

‘No?’ he asked, smirking.

He untucked Sherlock’s shirt from his trousers to imprint his fingertips around Sherlock’s hips, and Sherlock groaned and grabbed for John’s mouth again because he had to. The electric shocks jolting his skin were going to send his heart into arrhythmia; he felt like the breath in his lungs (what little he could get, though he didn’t want it anyway) was burning him from the inside out, tendrils of hot liquid _need_ surging to his furthest extremities. It almost hurt, how good it was, being kissed by John, kissed like John was going to keep him here, uncomfortably pinned between the edge, where kitchen met living room, and John’s hard insistent body, and he _hated_ his brain for flooding his retinas with the mortifying image of his own hands on himself in the sticky nocturnal humidity of Miami pretending without any success whatsoever that they were John’s hands, because it was unfair, _unfair_ , not to be able to appreciate it _while it was still happening_.

‘Hey,’ John whispered, grabbing his face with both hands and replacing the remembered midnight (hideous stucco salmon) hotel room with his real dark wide eyes. ‘We only just got the place to ourselves.’ He scanned Sherlock’s face. ‘I’ve got ideas, none of which I actually fancy having to do on my own. So just… focus.’

In spite of himself, Sherlock repeated, blankly, ‘Ideas?’, because, while Sherlock had never really stopped thinking about what he wanted to do to/for/with John, it seemed almost incomprehensible, even with the preliminary evidence of John’s arousal caught between their bodies, that he – that he wanted – Sherlock’s mind was spinning.

‘Mmm,’ John purred, as he pressed his reddened mouth to pull at Sherlock’s bottom lip until he could barely _breathe_. ‘Ideas. My room, now.’ 

He shifted back to place his weight back on his own feet; Sherlock tilted forward with him, feeling off-kilter and light-headed, in a manner not dissimilar to being inebriated. He wanted to lean into John and fuse himself there. When John placed a hand to the small of his back, his ring-finger sliding below the fabric to rub along his skin, he shivered, and allowed John to push him towards the stairs. As he walked, John’s fingers skittered around his waist until, a pace ahead, he almost let go – Sherlock’s hand flew up of its own accord, curling his rigidised knuckles to hook his fingertips with John’s, as he crowded him on the bottom stair. He had never climbed the next thirteen steps faster, even with his toes kicking the soles of John’s shoes in their haste. On the top step, John swirled round and kissed him and began – or continued, Sherlock wasn’t sure – undressing him, while simultaneously pulling him backwards into the room. Sherlock tried to help but he could hardly keep from going to pieces so here as elsewhere, he added as a footnote to his admittedly impressionistic observations, he almost certainly just got in his own way.

John kicked the door shut behind himself, then inclined forward, kissing Sherlock, sucking his tongue in a way that he felt helpless to respond to except to sit on the bed which was suddenly behind his calves and take John with him. The weight of John on top of him, one knee on the mattress between his thighs, felt both soaringly new and vividly familiar, a continuation of the previous night, and suddenly Sherlock felt hot, overheated, frantic to find all the places of John’s body he hadn’t touched and remedy his oversight, _immediately_.

‘Fuck,’ John muttered, as Sherlock shakily all but ripped John’s boring typical wonderful chequered shirt and even more boring, more contoured, more wonderful thin white vest _off_ and tossed them towards any destination except in his way. 

Again the aromatic tang of John’s sweat on his skin clobbered him like a plank to the head – a comparison both of them were qualified to draw – and without thinking, Sherlock bent nearly in half and licked John’s navel.

John gasped and laughed and swore and jumped all at once, which again seemed remarkably complex when Sherlock felt too muddled to do more than _want_ and then, eventually, _do_. He swallowed.

‘I –’ He had no idea what he wanted to say. ‘I…’ He ran his palms skimmingly as if planning to dissect John into two coronal halves, until his fingernails scratched gently under John’s armpits – instantly John had his wrists pinned to the bed beside him, causing his sage green shirt to fall open around his swelling chest cavity.

‘You?’ John prompted, innocuously, ‘Sorry, did you want something?’, eyes blown wide as he looked into Sherlock’s face with a maddening impersonation of patience, and _honestly_ , Sherlock was _boiling_ , he wanted to squirm and lick and prod and surround and lift John while kissing him like it was not even close to goodbye, and the man was being _facetious_.

Sherlock bucked his hips and relished the muffled groan that John failed to stifle, audible even beneath Sherlock’s own deafening rough breath.

‘I knew you’d be a chatterbox in bed,’ John joked, but then he kissed him firmly again, while his thumb dragged feather-light circles around the inside plane of Sherlock’s wrist, and Sherlock wanted to kiss him until he _liquefied_. A moment later, John had shoved his own belt open and Sherlock did at last manage to contribute because he was not, under any circumstances, going to get in John’s way when that direction was mutual nudity. Kicking away his trousers, he spread his legs wider to allow John some room.

‘Christ.’ John did laugh this time, staring at Sherlock’s embarrassingly erect penis and biting his lip. Sherlock, unable to help himself, instinctively placed his palms on the tops of John’s thighs, then looked up at him. ‘That’s…’ John’s cock twitched, and he shivered. ‘That’s a good idea, yeah, thanks.’

‘You’re welcome,’ Sherlock mumbled, because he didn’t think he trusted himself to move.

An enormous smile broke across John’s face, crinkling his eyes, and he never wanted anything more in his entire life than to stay, exactly here, suspended in the amber streetlight like an insect. _Allyl isothiocyanate_ , Sherlock thought wildly: harmful to the plant that created it, locked inside a glucose-based compound until released by enzymes upon ingestion, causing in a tingling, lachrymatory reaction in the ingesting animal; the potent sting of horseradish, wasabi, mustard. His scalp and insides itched painfully in places he knew he could not reach. It was delicious.

John curved into a gymnastic arc over him and panted softly into his mouth. ‘ _Focus_ ,’ he repeated slowly, lips catching on Sherlock’s with each letter. A little cross-eyed, Sherlock met John’s gaze, and nodded fractionally. John’s small smile was just at the corner of what he could see but John kissed him, purposefully, deeply, and Sherlock dug his fingers into the thick ropes of John’s femoral muscles, and closed his eyes.

 

…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I absolutely had [this artwork](http://thescienceofobsession.tumblr.com/post/56011692065) in mind when I was writing this chapter.  
> One more (short) chapter and then... _another_ sequel!


	7. Chapter 7 (Epilogue)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's raining again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [background [thunder](http://www.rainymood.com/)]

Chapter 7 ( _Epilogue_ )

 

Thick-lidded and disorientated, he woke in the middle of the night to trembling windows and the muted hiss of incessant rain outside.

Except then Sherlock snored again, and he realised, it probably wasn’t the thunder.

He didn’t wake completely, even when a shot of lightning broke the purple-orange city sky. After a moment, though, he looked dozily at Sherlock, who had mashed himself into the bed in angles that seemed impossibly uncomfortable. His hair really needing cutting – the thick mussed dark curtain of Sherlock’s fringe was nearly long enough to cover his eyes. (He almost expected, with the comic book surrealism of being not-quite-awake, for Sherlock’s next exhale to lift a few strands of curls in a shivering gust before they fell back onto his face.) His chin was tucked tightly, gracelessly, into his neck, his mouth open slightly, while the swell of his shoulder gave way to the gradual ebb and flow of his breathing. Lightning flashed; Sherlock inhaled. John found himself counting the long slow seconds until the thunder, watching Sherlock’s chest fall as the house shook and his nose rattled. The same basic animal fear, that the thunder would shatter the windowpanes, that Sherlock wouldn’t exhale, met the same exhilarating rush of pure loving gratitude when the windows didn’t shatter and Sherlock did breathe, the feeling that, contrary to all disastrous possibilities, they were somehow continuing to survive.

He had questions – wanted to know where Sherlock had slept – _if_ he had slept – when he had been away from Baker Street. How he had survived. What route he had taken – in which other cities? In other flats? In other people’s beds? – to end up drooling into John’s mattress? 

(Who had guarded him, when he was away? And before that? Who protected him while he slept, defenceless and angular and snoring?)

The storm continued, rolling with the same billowing _SMACK_ as of a large, soaked bedsheet being shaken out, and John felt sleep washing over him again. There wasn’t much space between Sherlock’s body and his, but, closing his eyes, he indulged himself and let his toes – warm, like his stomach, like the insides of his knees, like Sherlock’s chest, Sherlock’s hands only inches from John’s chest – slide over to rest under the soles of Sherlock’s feet. The new contact stirred Sherlock momentarily, and he snuffled and swallowed the saliva in his mouth, and settled again. When Sherlock slept, he slept like the dead. 

He felt, with his militarily-trained internal clock, that it was probably somewhere just before five, so he doubted he would sleep much more than another hour. If he timed it right, he could wake before Sherlock… could kiss him awake.

Sherlock’s toes curled softly on the top of his foot. Thunder rolled. He slept.

 

…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...  
>  Alas, yes, a short chapter, mostly as a bridge between Carbuncle here and [Part 3] over... there, in the abyss, there...
> 
> Thank you SO much -- honestly. thank you. -- to everyone who read, liked, commented, etc. It makes me giddy and self-important and GOD knows I need more of that. As to [Part 3], it's coming along very much at its own speed. But if the length (and *rating*) of the first two chapters is any indication, I expect it will come out all right.
> 
> Until then, hope you're all well. x

**Author's Note:**

> ALL COMMENTS WELCOME! (No really. All.) All errors definitely mine -- please feel free to message me or drop in on my [ask](http://arabella-strange.tumblr.com/ask) if you find a typo! All original characters belong to their respective creators.  
> And if you can spot all the references I somewhat self-indulgently scattered in here, you're a better reader than I.  
> *Updates every Friday.*


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